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1-85 

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J.  J.   BlSSEGGEB. 

Half-title  and  Captions  for  List  of  Artists,  Note,  and  Cantos. 

JOHN  J.  BOYLE. 

Modellings  for  Frontispiece,  Half-titles  to  Cantos,  and  Illustration 
at  end  of  Canto  I. 


F.  S.  CHURCH. 

"Leaning  on  Raguenel  for  aid" 


108 


C.  M.  DEWEY. 

"The  pinnacled  proud  tops  of  Brittomarte" 85 

"The  rapid-running  Cher"        .       . 102 


F.   DlELMAN. 

"  Guhaldrada,"  Frontispiece  to  Canto  I. 
"The  kiss  that  blights  thee  sets  me  free" 


!  A4c~3 


E.  H.  GARRETT. 

"  And  tore  the  veil  from  off  her  head" 112 

CHARLES  L.  HINTON. 

"He  bore  the  jousting  prize  away"       .      .      .       .       .       .       .       .        27 

WILL  H.  Low. 

Illuminated  title. 

"Yvernelle,"  Frontispiece  to  Canto  III. 

Drawings  for  Copyright  notice  and  Introduction. 

E.  MAENE. 

Modellings  for  Decorations  throughout  the  text. 

WALTER  SHIRLAW. 

"Draw  off  your  hounds,  give  up  the  deer"       ....  31 

"Sir  Caverlaye,'   Frontispiece  to  Canto  II. 

"His  foe  to  his  steed's  loins  was  bent" 58 


THE  plot  of  the  following  poem  was  suggested  by  this 
passage  from  the  autobiography  of  Goethe : 

"Nun,"  rief  sie  aus,  "furehte  meine  Verwiinschung.  Ungliick  iiber 
Ungliick  fur  immer  und  immer  auf  Diejenige,  die  zum  ersten  Male  nach 
mir  diese  Lippen  kiisst !  Wage  es  nun  wieder,  mit  ihm  anzubinden ;  ich 
weiss,  der  Himmel  erhort  mich  dies  Mai  Und  Sie,  mein  Heir,  eilen  Sie 
nun,  eilen  Sie  was  Sie  konnen!" — Dichtung  und  Wahrheit,  IX. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  add  that  the  characters  and  events 
of  the  poem  are  purely  fictitious. 


INTRODUCTION. 


"THE  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them, 

And  with  their  bones  is  oft  interred  the  good." 
Well  said,  Antonius ;  and  men  condemn 

Their  ancestors  with  base  ingratitude. 
But  that  which  for  one  man  alone  is  true 

Is  often  truer  of  a  buried  age; 
Its  virtues  are  perversely  kept  from  view, 

While  all  its  vices  swell  the  historic  page. 
Perchance  the  cause  for  such  injustice  lies 

In  that  we  readier  do  understand 
The  miseries  which  from  such  vices  rise 

Than  those  joys  springing  from  a  virtuous  land. 
For  misery  is  the  same  in  ev'ry  age ; 

Oppression,  famine,  poverty,  and  strife 
Ground  down  the  Pharaoh's  swart  vassalage 

E'en  as  with  us  they  grind  the  humbler  life. 
11 


Like  as  the  eupatrid  made  the  helot  serve; 

Like  as  the  Roman  equite  crushed  the  plebs  ; 
Like  as  the  baron  long  oppressed  the  serf, 

Watering  with  blood  and  sweat  his  hungry  glebes ; 
And  listening  to  each  epoch's  woful  cries, 

And  hearing  them  re-echoed  in  our  own, — 
With  them  we  can  the  quicker  sympathize. 

We  love  to  tell  of  ills  ourselves  have  known  ; 
Like  evils  swarm  each  land,  each  century ; 

Grief  hath  no  age,  no  nationality. 


But  Pleasure's  beaming  front  and  joyous  face 

With  ev'ry  epoch  changes  swift  its  hue, 
And  ev'ry  nation,  each  succeeding  race, 

Produces  for  itself  enjoyments  new. 
The  eupatrid  with  fair  tumultuous  glance 

Before  the  Olympian  games  raised  loud  acclaim ; 
Rejoiced  to  see  the  circling  choric  dance, 

The  chariot  fly,  or  the  dull  cestus  maim. 
Within  the  Coliseum's  mighty  girth 

The  equite  Habd  cried  with  down-turned  thumb. 
Over  the  tournament's  red-listed  earth 

The  baron  bent,  while  not  a  voice  was  dumb ; 
Real  blood — real  death — real  gasp  and  dying  moan — 

Aroused  the  equite's  mind,  the  baron's  heart; 
While  we,  a  dainty  age,  and  milder  grown, 

Find  our  diversion  in  the  mimic  art; 

12 


The  merits  of  an  age  are  all  its  own, 

Its  evils  are  those  common  to  mankind. 
We  cannot  claim  its  virtues  when  'tis  flown, 

We  are  but  heirs  of  ills  it  leaves  behind. 
The  glorious  arts  of  Greece  with  Greece  expired, 

What  age  has  ever  followed  where  she  led? 
Where  nmc  that  iron  justice  which  inspired 

The  Roman  sire  his  offspring's  blood  to  shed? 
And  where  is  now  that  doubtless  faith  and  blind, 

The  valor,  love,  romance,  and  poetry, 
That  sacred  reverence  for  womankind, 

That  roused  self-sacrificing  chivalry? 


Romance,  pure  Art,  stern  Justice,  all  are  flown  ! 

Flown  with  the  age  by  which  they  were  ordained. 
Whatever  the  merits  be  we  call  our  own, 

Such  now,  by  us,  can  never  be  attained. 
But  ev'ry  evil  which  their  states  perplexed 

They  have  bequeathed  to  us  to  work  us  woe. 
Still  unresolved  that  evil  which  them  vexed, 

That  never-ending  strife  'twixt  high  and  low. 
The  feudal  baron  from  his  gloomy  tower 

Rode  o'er  his  host  of  toiling  serfs  rough-shod ; 
And  oft  they  felt  his  steel's  resistless  power, 

And  oft  they  writhed  beneath  his  cruel  rod. 
The  feudal  baron  yet  remains  to-day, 

But,  changed  into  the  modern  moneyed  lord, 

13 


Still  o'er  the  people  holds  more  cruel  sway, 

But  'tis  with  hoarded  gold  and  not  with  sword. 


Still  do  his  vassals  feel  his  iron  heel. 

His  power  awes — his  government  alarms ; 
Still  rings  the  world  with  sound?  of  clashing  steel 

'Tis  of  machinery  and  not  of  arms. 


Still  live  the  grievances  of  feudal  day, 

But  all  its  romance  perished  when  it  died, 
E'en  as  the  hue  and  fragrance  pass  away 

Soon  as  the  rose  is  dead  and  flung  aside. 
The  pride,  the  pomp,  the  pageantry,  are  fled; 

What  once  to  all  was  well-known  commonplace 
Is  told  in  legends,  or  is  wholly  dead, 

Or  undervalued  by  a  colder  race. 


Yet  time  there  was  when  squire,  page,  and  knight 

Portcullis,  keep,  and  barbican  were  real; 
When  tournaments  were  things  of  daily  sight, 

And  Chivalry  arrayed  in  flashing  steel; — 
And  time  there  was  when  the  brave  errant-knight 

Was  not  a  fancy  of  a  minstrel's  tale, 
But  fought  in  very  earnest  for  the  right, 

Or  wandered  wide  to  find  the  Holy  Grail ; 

14 


Or  when  on  bridge  or  road,  backed  by  his  page, 
He  held  his  post  with  ever-ready  lance, 

And  pledged  himself  all  comers  to  engage 
To  win  the  favor  of  his  lady's  glance. 


15 


HOW    SIR   CAVERLAYE    OF   VOYSVENEL    DEPARTED    FROM    SPAIN 
AND  CAME    INTO   FRANCE. 


"  LET  soft  entreaty  cease  then  here, 
Let  fall  no  more  the  idle  tear, 
And  let  reproach  and  meek  complaint 
Be  bounded  by  their  fit  restraint. 
I  cease  to  din  your  wearied  ears 
With  further  grief-begotten  prayers. 
All  my  fond  heart  I  gave  to  you, 
A  heart  that  loved  as  love  but  few, 
And  now  I  spare  to  rave  and  burn 
Because  that  priceless  gift  you  spurn; 
But  though  my  breast  with  pain  is  torn 
Still  shall  you  listen  to  my  scorn. 

19 


"And  in  your  pride  did  you  then  think 
That  Guhaldrada  e'er  would  sink 
Dejected,  when  you  cooled  apace? 
And,  when  you  wearied  of  her  face, 
Sink,  and  then  fade  like  some  meek  flower, 
The  sun's  poor  plaything  for  an  hour, 
Who,  when  he  drew  his  beams  away, 
Pined — sickened — died  before  its  day? 


"If  thus  you  thought,  well  did  it  show 

That  her  you  did  as  little  know 

As  you  knew  how  your  heart  to  move, 

As  you  know  what  it  is  to  love ! 

Ay,  and  of  love  what  couldst  thou  know? 

The  cold,  thin  blood  that  feedeth  slow 

The  starved  mouths  of  your  shrivelled  heart 

To  warm  pulsations  ne'er  could  start; 

Your  veins  ne'er  throbbed  in  love's  fierce  tide, 

You  no  wild,  headstrong  passions  ride ; 

You  cannot  know  the  fire  that  doth 

Burn  in  the  Spanish  Visigoth, — 

A  love  that  soul  and  body  thrills 

As  earth  and  air  the  sunlight  fills; 

A  love  itself  no  limits  sets, 

A  love  that  man  and  God  forgets. 

For  him  it  loves  fair  fame  forsakes, 

Of  him  it  loves  a  god  it  makes, 

20 


Leaves  love  of  God  un recked  apart, 
Leaves  God  of  soul  for  god  of  heart. 
Yet  why  such  speech  to  you  address? 
For  you  such  words  are  meaningless, — 
Words  that  sound  light  as  zephyrs  do, — 
Yet  with  such  love  I  once  loved  you. 
Ay — for  I  scorn  it  to  conceal — 
Thou'st  ever  tricked  and  cozened  well. 
Go  now,  and  to  men's  scornful  eyes 
Exultingly  display  your  prize. 
Proud  Guhaldrada's  quivering  heart, 
Which,  by  the  finesse  of  your  art, 
You  from  her  bosom  deftly  reft; 
Go, — glory  in  your  skilful  theft ! 


"  Though  in  your  palm  my  fond  heart  lies, 
It,  for  itself,  you  love  nor  prize, 
Or  prize  it  only  as  it  bears 
The  proof  of  your  successful  snares. 
The  savage  queens  who  ta'en  in  war 
Adorned  the  Caesar's  gilded  car 
Were  dear  to  him,  but  only  dear 
As  trophies  of  triumphant  war. 
And  thus  go  thou,  and  vaunting  prove 
The  conquest  of  my  boundless  love. 
Yet  think  not  Guhaldrada's  love 
Can,  like  an  outworn  hawking-glove, 
21 


Be  tossed  off  that  a  newer  one 
And  fresher  ye  may  lightly  don; 
Think  not  a  rival  she  would  brook 
To  pity  her  with  soothing  look. 


"Though  her,  awearied,  you  may  spurn, 
Ne'er  to  another  shalt  thou  turn. 
Thou  palest  now — ha  !  be  it  so  ? 
Then  listen,  traitor,  e'er  you  go : 
I  know  not  if  within  your  breast 
Another  lives,  a  cherished  guest, 
Or  if,  incensed  at  this  delay, 
Towards  her  ye  burn  to  wend  your  way. 
But  if  within  the  ocean's  bound 
There  such  a  one  be  haply  found, 
Let  my  deep  curse  be  o'er  her  shed 
Drear  as  the  pall  that  sheets  the  dead; 
Thus,  though  'tis  given  as  a  foe, 
One  kiss  on  thee  I  here  bestow, 


22 


And  cursed  the  lips  that  next  shall  press 
Thine  own  in  love  and  tenderness. 
May  all  their  life's  deep  ruby  hue 
Fly  from  that  pledge  of  lovers  true; 
When  on  her  lips  you  print  that  kiss, 
May  that  one  moment's  fleeting  bliss, 
That  sets  her  cheek  in  gentle  glow, 
Be  e'en  the  last  she  e'er  shall  know. 
From  that  same  instant  may  foul  fame 
Cling  like  a  blight  about  her  name ; 
May  evil  crouch  behind  her  back, 
Misfortune  press  upon  her  track. 
May  that  one  kiss  become  a  blot 
Upon  her  life,  and  fest'ring  rot, 
And,  like  a  canker,  ever  grow 
Until  it  hath  consumed  slow 
Her  friends,  her  peace,  her  love,  her  life, 
Turned  fellowship  to  mortal  strife, 
Made  her  abhorred  of  her  own  mind, 
Her  name  a  byword  to  mankind ; 
And,  like  that  born  of  Judas'  breath, 
Be  it  the  herald  of  her  death. 
Blinded  by  staring  eyes  of  scorn, 
Deafened  by  shouts  of  hatred  born, 
Dazed,  stunned,  and  reft  of  ev'ry  hope, 
Eagerly  downward  may  she  grope, 
Down  to  that  tomb,  her  welcome  rest; 
Down  to  that  self-dug  grave,  unblest; 


Buried  in  ruin  self-devised, 
Disowned,  dishonored,  and  despised." 


When  she  had  ceased,  when,  proud  and  tall, 
She'd  swept,  disdainful,  from  the  hall, 
Sir  Caverlaye  of  Voysvenel 
Sat  long,  as  one  beneath  a  spell, 
Sat  thoughtful  in  his  carven  chair, 
Sat  gazing  fixedly  in  air. 


That  he  had  sinned  full  well  he  knew, 

Faithless  he  had  been,  and  untrue. 

And,  now  in  grief  and  bitterness, 

He  owned  his  blinded  guiltiness; 

He'd  thought  he  loved  her,  and  he  wot 

That  Yvernelle  was  long  forgot ; 

Thought  that  her  image,  which  was  traced 

Upon  his  heart,  had  been  effaced 

By  this  dark  countess  of  old  Spain, 

And  that  it  ne'er  would  come  again. 

Thus  had  he  lingered  by  her  side, 

And  heedless  let  the  Spring-time  glide 

To  Summer's  glowing  loveliness, 

Till  all  her  heart  was  wholly  his. 

But  those  flames,  less  of  love  than  lust, 

Soon  burned  themselves  to  smouldering  dust, 

24 


And,  like  their  smoke,  his  visions  fair 
Soon  vanished  to  the  empty  air. 
And  then  his  fever-blinded  glance 
Turned  once  more  to  his  native  France; 
All  else  forgot,  he  saw  again 
The  blue  hills  of  his  own  Touraine. 
Once  more  he  saw  his  castle's  keep 
Poised  airy  on  the  hill-side  steep, 
Once  more  he  heard  the  mavis  sing, 
His  native  notes  the  woodland  ring. 


Once  more  he  saw  with  tightened  heart 
The  fretted  spires  of  Brittomarte; 
Once  more  saw  stout  Sir  Raguenel, 
Once  more  saw  blue-eyed  Yvernelle. 
Then  restless  grew,  and  vexed  at  heart, 
And  from  the  others  kept  apart, 
And  oft  was  thoughtful,  stern,  and  cold, 
And  oft  was  tender  as  of  old. 
At  times  from  revels  fled  away, 
At  times  was  feverishly  gay ; 
To  Guhaldrada  oft  was  curt, 
To  her  entreaties  answered  short. 
Until  she  ceased  to  question  him, 
Stirred  by  suspicion  vague  and  dim, 
Fixed  on  him  sidelong,  searching  look 
That  seemed  to  read  him  as  a  book. 

25 


Till  when,  one  day,  to  madness  stung, 
She  turned  on  him  with  furious  tongue, 
And  when — for  who  may  safely  hide 
Aught  from  the  eye  of  jealous  pride? — 
Him  she  reproached  with  angry  tears 
For  that  his  heart  had  ne'er  been  hers, 
In  gloomy  silence  he  had  heard, 
Nor  had  denied  with  sign  or  word. 
And  Guhaldrada's  haughty  mind 
All  that  he  shrank  to  tell  divined  ; 
Though  deep  his  sleep,  he  wakened  now 
And  roused  himself,  and  bared  his  brow : 
Freed  from  enchantment's  tangled  skein, 
He  marvelled  how  it  e'er  had  been. 
Grievous  the  wrong  and  foul  the  stain ; 
Yet  to  begin  his  life  again 
It  even  now  was  not  too  late ; 
Time  was  there  yet  to  bend  his  fate. 
Then,  with  his  new-born  purpose  fired, 
With  high  resolve  and  aim  inspired, 
Striding  exultant  from  the  hall, 
He  sought  his  trusty  charger's  stall ; 
With  hands  that  trembled  oft  for  haste 
The  steel-faced  harness  on  him  placed ; 
Seized  from  its  rack  his  beam-like  lance, 
And  then,  without  one  backward  glance, 
Forth  from  the  castle-gates  he  rode 
And  took,  for  France,  the  northern  road. 


Boots  not  in  devious  song  to  tell 

The  divers  'haps  that  him  befell, 

Ills  that  beset  him  faring  forth 

On  his  long  journey  toward  the  north. 

How  he  on  Andalusia's  plain 

Was  by  banditti  all  but  slain  ; 

How,  the  swift  Gaudiana  o'er, 

Him  his  brave  steed  in  safety  bore; 

How  that  in  Salamanca  gay 

He  bore  the  jousting  prize  away, 

Or  how  his  very  wine-flask  froze 

Amid  the  Pyrenees'  still  snows. 

But  now  his  journey's  end  is  neared ; 

Two  days  already  hath  he  fared 

Through  the  broad  reach  of  hill  and  plain 

And  valleys  of  his  own  Touraine. 

In  town  and  inn,  familiar  names; 

In  market  squares,  familiar  games ; 

The  mower's  well-known  cadenced  song 

Rising  the  well-known  fields  among. 

Familiar  landmarks  near  and  far, 

Recalling  scenes  of  chase  and  war. 

Here  the  dead  pine-tree,  gaunt  and  hoar, 

Where  brave  Lexvallen  slew  the  boar; 

Yonder  the  "  Tor"  with  lichens  gray, 

Near  which  the  stag  was  brought  to  bay ; 

The  ford  at  which  was  Repfort  drowned, 

The  cliff  where  fell  his  fav'rite  hound ; 

27 


And  farther  on  the  copse-wood  gray 
Round  which  was  fought  the  bloody  fray : 
Such  scenes  though  e'en  forgotten  long 
All  told  him  he  was  coming  home. 


Down  in  the  dingle  long  and  deep, 
Where  Brittomarte's  cool  shadows  sleep, 
The  hunter's  note  swells  clear  and  high ; 
The  bell-tongued  pack  are  at  full  cry ; 
The  hooded  falcons  beat  their  wings 
And  struggle  at  their  silken  strings. 
The  hunt  is  up,  the  stag  is  off ; 
With  eager  shout  and  merry  laugh 
The  woodland  rings  and  rings  again. 
The  neighing  horses  join  the  strain  ; 
In  mingled  din  horn,  horse,  and  hound 
Drown  one  another's  varied  sound. 
See !  galloping  in  foremost  place 
Stout  old  Raguenel  leads  the  chase. 
So  fast  he  rides  his  horse's  breath 
Strikes  on  the  hounds  that  fly  beneath. 
"  Wind,  wind  d,  morte  /" — the  stag  is  down 
The  swarming  pack  are  flung  upon 
His  struggling,  tortured,  writhing  frame; 
So  close  they  press  upon  the  game 
You  scarce  may  see  his  dun-hued  hide 
Beneath  their  snarling,  living  tide. 

28 


"  Back,  drive  them  back  !"     With  whistling  lash 

Amidst  the  pack  the  verderers  dash. 

He  makes  one  struggle  vain  to  rise, 

One  moment  rolls  his  blood-rimmed  eyes, 

Then  rolls  upon  the  trampled  loam, — 

Sir  RaguenePs  spear  has  driven  home. 

Down  from  the  castle  through  the  dell 

Comes  riding  fair-haired  Yvernelle, 

Bearing  with  modest  mien  and  grace 

The  cloths  and  ewer  to  the  chase. 

And  fair  she  was,  with  large,  soft  eyes 

That  mocked  the  azure  of x the  skies; 

And  her  white  cheeks  (else  were  they  cold) 

Blushed  with  the  sun's  kiss  over-bold ; 

A  chlamys  wrought  in  gray  and  gold 

Fell  round  in  many  a  loving  fold, 

Her  beauty  free  from  taint  or  stain, 

The  fairest  maid  in  all  Touraine. 


When  Camelon  left  feud  and  raid 

To  hurry  to  the  last  crusade, 

With  his  old  comrade  Raguenel 

He  left  his  daughter  Yvernelle. 

The  straggling  remnant  that  again 

Reached  home  with  Thibault  of  Champagne 

Told  how  in  thickest  battle's  brunt 

Unhorsed,  his  wounds  all  in  the  front, 

He  kept  the  Saracens  at  bay 

While  wounded  Robert  sped  away ; 

Watered  the  desert  with  his  blood, 

And  fell  where  fighting  he  had  stood. 

They  buried  him  in  foreign  ground, 

And  Yvernelle  a  parent  found 

In  grizzled,  kindly  Raguenel, 

And  reverenced  him  almost  as  well. 

Just  as  the  train  with  eager  eyes 

Were  gathering  round  the  fallen  prize, 

And  breathless  from  his  eager  race, 

Wiping  his  hot  and  sweating  face, 

First  at  the  death, — Sir  Raguenel 

Then  from  the  hand  of  Yvernelle 

Taking  the  ewer  in  silver  wrought 

To  lave  his  blood-stained  hand  and  coat, — 


Down  through  an  alley's  covered  way 
That  toward  the  distant  high-road  lay, 


Armed  at  all  points,  his  vizor  down, 
A  warrior  stern  came  riding  on; 
Back  on  his  haunches  reined  his  steed, 
Crying,  while  startled  all  gave  heed : 
"  Hold !  in  St.  Hubert's  name  forbear ! 
Who  so  presumptuous  as  to  dare 
To  chase  the  deer  within  the  bounds 
Of  Voysvenel's  own  hunting-grounds? 


"Draw  off  your  hounds, — give  up  the  deer, 

And  if,  departing  straight  from  here, 

Due  reparation  ye  shall  make, 

We'll  stint  to  further  justice  take. 

What  think  ye,  then,  though  for  your  lands 

And  his  a  common  boundary  stands, 

Ye  may  unquestioned  kill  his  stags 

Beneath  his  castle's  very  flags?" 

Straight  o'er  the  brow  of  Raguenel 

A  thunder-cloud  of  (}eep  wrath  fell : 

"  Morbleu,  Sir  Knight,  such  hardihood 

'Twere  well  to  punish  with  thy  blood. 

Know  that  the  house  of  Voysvenel 

Was  friendly  e'er  to  Raguenel. 

Allied  by  every  tie  but  blood, 

For  them  such  boundary  ne'er  stood. 

That  such  bonds  should  be  closer  tied 

To  him,  my  ward  was  pledged  a  bride; 

31 


But  who  art  thou  who  thus  must  needs 

Call  us  to  question  for  our  deeds?" 

The  Knight  his  vizor  quickly  raised ; 

Raguenel,  as  on  his  face  he  gazed 

Like  one  a  sudden  vision  daunts, 

Stood  wonder-stricken  for  the  nonce, 

While  through  the  throng  from  man  to  man 

A  sudden,  swelling  murmur  ran. 

And  Yvernelle  in  mute  surprise 

Just  caught  her  breath  and  dropped  her  eyes, 

And  then  Sir  Raguenel  burst  forth : 

"  Now  once  more  welcome  to  the  north ; 

Let  anger  cease,  foul  doubt  dispel, 

'Tis  he  !     Tis  he  !     'Tis  Voysvenel !" 

Leaping  from  off  his  panting  steed, 

In  joyous  tones  the  Knight  loud  said : 

"Not  e'en  in  jest  could  I  prolong 

High  words  with  thee.     Forgive  the  wrong ; 

The  playful  strife  is  at  an  end. 

Give  me  thy  hand,  O  noble  friend  ! 

And  ye,  brave  yeomen  of  my  land, 

Let  me  clasp  close  each  several  hand. 

Ah  !  Raguenel,  but  to  be  here, 

To  breathe  once  more  my  native  air, 

To  tread  with  bounding  step  again 

The  hills  and  valleys  of  Touraine, 

Makes  these  long  months  seem  like  a  trance 

That  I  have  passed  away  from  France. 

32 


I  tell  thee  truly,  Raguenel " 

But  ceased,  for  he  saw  Yvernelle. 

Then  all  his  love  in  radiance  bright 

Broke  o'er  his  face  like  breaking  light; 

One  eager  glance  he  gave  his  bride 

Then  instantly  was  at  her  side. 

With  deepest  joy  to  his  broad  breast 

Her  half-reluctant  form  he  pressed, 

And  on  her  fair  hands  once  again 

Showered  his  kisses  fond,  like  rain. 

"  Nay,  then,  her  lips, — her  lips  as  well !" 

Cried  happily  old  Raguenel. 

And  Yvernelle  once  on  him  gazed, 

Then  trustingly  her  lips  upraised. 

Gently  o'er  her  he  bent  his  head, 

Then,  all  at  once,  sprang  back  in  dread  ; 

For  on  his  ear  in  accents  hoarse 

Rang  Guhaldrada's  parting  curse : 

"  Let  my  deep  curse  round  her  be  shed 

Drear  as  the  pall  that  sheets  the  dead; 

And  cursed  the  lips  that  next  shall  press 

Thine  own  in  lover's  fond  caress !" 

He  started  back  with  quivering  bound, 

Then  stood,  as  rooted  to  the  ground. 

The  throng  beheld,  as  though  spell-bound; 

A  silence  fell  on  all  around. 

And  Yvernelle  in  pained  surprise 

To  Voysvenel  upturned  her  eyes ; 


And  then  outspoke  Sir  Raguenel : 

"  What  means  this,  kinsman  ?     Art  not  well  ? 

Thy  brow  is  pale.     Speak,  let  me  know. 

Sure  not  her  kiss  affects  thee  so? 

What,  silent  yet?     Now,  by  the  Rood! 

Thou  hast  returned  in  mumming  mood. 

If  for  a  moment's  time  I  thought 

Thou  play'dst  with  us  or  trifled  aught 

With  this  young  heart  that  loves  thee  so, 

By  great  St.  Remy  !  I — but  no, 

This  still  is  but  thy  merry  jest, 

And,  though  'tis  somewhat  over-pressed, 

I'd  jest  with  thee  did  it  not  grieve 

A  heart  'twere  fiend-like  to  deceive. 

Yet  hold, — no  jesting  face  is  here, — 

No  jester  e'er  such  grief  could  wear ! 

Thou'rt  not  thyself !     Speak,  Voysvenel ! 

Thou'rt  meshed  in  some  entangling  spell. 

Hence,  comrades  !     Now,  O  Caverlaye  ! 

To  me,  as  to  your  father,  say, 

Say  that  beneath  this  seeming  slight 

Some  reason  good  is  hid  from  sight !" 

Then  for  one  moment,  hard  repressed 

In  Caverlaye's  sore  tortured  breast, 

Sprang  there  an  impulse  brave  and  true 

To  lay  bare  all  its  faults  to  view, 

Reveal  the  past,  confess  his  sin, 

Place  all  his  fate  their  hands  within. 

34 


Yet  quick  he  shrank  to  own  that  he 
Was  proved  of  infidelity; 
He  feared  that  she  would  not  forgive, 
Feared  that  Sir  Raguenel  ne'er  would  give 
Consent  his  hand  o'er  hers  to  clasp 


Fresh  from  another's  fevered  grasp, — 
He,  that  an  hundred  battles  dared, 
Within  himself  now  owned  he  feared, 
And  so,  in  voice  suppressed  and  low, 
He  bent  his  eyes  and  answered,  "'No" 
He  felt  himself  in  grievous  plight; 
For  should  he  speak,  bring  all  to  light, 
He  felt  his  words  would  sound  the  knell 
Of  all  his  hopes  with  Yvernelle. 

35 


And  yet,  if  he  should  hold  his  peace, 

Nor  give  his  struggling  thoughts  release, 

For  her  'twould  surely  show,  he  knew, 

That  he  to  her  had  been  untrue. 

And,  for  the  curse,  he  did  not  dare 

With  his  to  touch  her  lips  so  fair. 

Betwixt  his  lips  a  poison  lay 

To  blight  her  happiness  for  aye; 

Yet  if  he  spared  that  fateful  kiss, 

Before  him — saw  but  bitterness. 

But  how  relate — how  fitly  tell 

The  anguish  of  sweet  Yvernelle? 

With  marble  brow  and  tearless  eye 

She'd  stood  intent  for  his  reply, 

And  when  it  fell  upon  her  ear 

Her  life's  dear  light  died  out  for  her. 

Was,  then,  his  love  from  her  estranged? 

Had  absence  short  his  heart  so  changed? 

Still  did  she  shrink  all  hope  to  leave, 

Still  would  she,  faithful,  him  believe. 

Her  grief  had  overcome  her  pride, 

One  last  supreme  appeal  she  tried, 

One  hand  in  his  broad  palm  she  laid, 

And  calm  and  tenderly  she  said : 

"O  noble-minded  Voysvenel, 

Still  I  believe  you  love  me  well, 

And  though,  but  now,  through  some  disdain 

You  smote  my  heart  with  deepest  pain, 


Gladly  the  deed  will  I  forget 

If  you  but  prove  you  love  me  yet. 

Still  faithful  do  I  trust  your  love, 

Oh,  I  beseech  that  love  you  prove !" 

Sir  Caverlaye  was  stout  of  heart 

As  Oliver  or  Ascaparte ; 

Yet  scarce  his  valor  stood  his  need 

To  do  the  seeming  cruel  deed. 

With  eyes  his  harshness  all  belied 

He  gently  put  her  from  his  side, 

And  bowed  his  head  in  misery 

And  faintly  said,  "It  may  not  be." 

Then,  in  a  rage  that  furious  burned, 

Old  Raguenel  upon  him  turned : 

"Now,  by  our  Lady's  radiant  front, 

To  me  thou'lt  answer  this  affront. 

Let  ev'ry  bond  of  friendship's  chain 

Be  from  this  moment  snapped  in  twain. 

Henceforward  till  death  lays  us  low 

We  stand  to  each  as  foe  to  foe. 

Here,  here,  to  thine  eternal  shame, 

I  brand  thee  with  a  traitor's  name ! 

And  on  thy  body  will  I  prove 

The  charge.     False  Knight,  there  lies  my  glove. 

Rampant,  like  blaze  of  living  fire, 

Leaped  Caverlaye's  deep-seated  ire; 

Yet  e'en  this  too  was  to  be  borne, 

For  all  his  pride  he  could  not  turn ; 

37 


E'en  when  so  openly  defied 

His  wrath  was  curbed,  his  hands  were  tied. 


And  so  the  quick  retort  he  stayed, 

And  to  Sir  Raguenel  he  said : 

"Refrain  from  taunting,  bitter  word; 

Take  up  your  glove,  re-sheathe  your  sword; 

He  that  is  loved  of  Yvernelle 

Is  sacred  e'er  to  Voysvenel." 

Perplexed  stood  Raguenel  for  a  space, 

With  deep  scorn  wreathed  about  his  face; 

Then  Caverlaye  a  moment  eyed, 

And  thus  in  calm  disdain  replied : 

"Till  now,  I  thought  that  busy  fame 

38 


With  valor  had  allied  thy  name; 

And  yet,  in  truth,  I  should  not  seem 

Surprised  to  find  this,  too,  a  dream. 

To  Falsehood  Fear  is  comrade  meet, 

And  Cowardice  becomes  deceit. 

Enough  !   we  barter  vain  words  light. 

This  last  advice  to  thee,  Sir  Knight : 

Look  well  unto  thy  moated  keep, 

Be  watchful  lest  thy  warders  sleep, 

And  let  thy  rout  of  men-at-arms 

Be  vigilant  against  alarms; 

And  for  thyself,  on  land  or  sea, 

Sir  Knight,  God  keep  thee  well  from  me. 

Come,  Yvernelle,  allay  thy  fears; 

He  is  not  worthy  of  these  tears.'7 


Weary,  she  leant  on  him  for  aid ; 
They  turned  them  from  the  leafy  glade. 
Sir  Caverlaye,  with  anguished  heart 
And  yearning  eyes,  watched  them  depart; 
Stepped  forward  with  unsteady  tread, 
Paused,  clasped  his  hands  above  his  head, 
Grasped  for  support  a  gnarled  tree, 
And  called  her  name  despairingly. 
She  heard,  and,  pausing  ere  she  went, 
Backward  her  eyes'  love-light  she  bent, 
Backward  upon  his  dark  despair 
Like  sunlight  on  a  murky  air ; 
Stretched  forth  her  arms  in  love  and  woe, 
And  sighed  in  tender  accents  low : 
"  O  life,  O  love,  O  joys  that  swell 
Love's  trusting  heart,  farewell !  farewell ! 
Love's  little  day  its  course  hath  run; 
Already  its  fast- westering  sun, 
Passing  its  zenith  pure  and  bright, 
Fades, — fades  and  pales  upon  my  sight. 
Already  its  last  lingering  ray 
Gleams  fitful  thwart  life's  twilight  gray, 
And  twilight's  breezes'  trembling  breath 
Whispers  the  coming  night  of  death. 
But  oh,  if  yet  beyond  the  skies 
Haply  a  morning  sun  may  rise, 
Till  then,  O  my  beloved,  I  wait; 
Wait  till  the  crooked  is  made  straight, 

40 


Wait  till  all  tears  have  ceased  to  flow, 
Wait  till  each  other's  hearts  we  know ; 
Then  till  rejoined  beyond  life's  flood, 
Then  till  my  love  be  understood, 
Then  till  my  heart  by  you  is  seen, 
I  wait,  calm,  trusting,  and  serene." 


When  her  last  words  melodious  fell 
Upon  the  ear  of  Voysvenel 
As  soft,  yet  e'en  as  piteous 
As  some  sweet-knelling  Angelus; 
When,  like  the  sun  passed  from  the  skies, 
Her  vision  vanished  from  his  eyes, — 
The  pent-up  floodgates  of  his  heart 
With  rushing  sorrow  burst  apart 
Beneath  its  tide  'whelmed  suddenly, 
He  let  his  grief  have  mastery. 
Prone  on  his  face  the  grass  among 
Himself  in  misery  he  flung, 

41 


And  clinched  his  teeth  in  frenzied  clasp 
Against  each  sob  and  quivering  gasp. 
Thus,  in  the  depth  of  that  dark  wood 
Long  time  he  lay  stretched  on  the  sod, 
So  still,  at  length  the  rabbits  gray 
Came  hopping  timid  where  he  lay. 


His  grazing  steed  unheeded  strayed 

With  trailing  bridle  down  the  glade; 

And  the  dead  deer  beside  him  lay, 

Fall'n  where  his  life-blood  ebbed  away, 

The  pain  of  his  last  wild  death-cry 

Still  left  in  his  half-human  eye. 

Fierce  was  the  pain  when  through  his  heart 

Had  cut  the  keen  and  biting  dart, 

But  fiercer  pain  burned  unrepressed 

Within  the  strong  man's  tortured  breast. 


Now  was  the  day  departing  slow; 
The  wearied  sun  was  bending  low 
From  his  huge  arc  that  heaven  spanned 
To  kiss  the  warm  and  fragrant  land. 
Each  battlement  and  fretted  spire 
In  echoing  light  flashed  back  his  fire. 
Earthward  he  wheeled  in  radiant  heat, 
The  sparks  struck  'neath  his  courser's  feet, 


As  wheeling  down  to  earth  he  came, 
Kindled  the  west  to  glowing  flame ; 
While  thwart  that  west  which  blazing  shone 
Long  streaming  golden  clouds  were  strewn, 
That  seemed  the  streaming  manes  back  blown 
From  those  fierce  coursers  of  the  sun; 
Then  came  the  twilight  soft  and  gray, 
The  gentle  child  of  night  and  day; 
Anon  night's  pinions  were  unfurled, 
And  silence  settled  o'er  the  world. 


; 


HOW  SIR   CAVERLAYE   AND  THE   WYVERN   KNIGHT    MET  IN 
DEADLY   COMBAT. 


WITHIX  a  forest's  tangled  heart, 
Far  from  the  fief  of  Brittomarte, 
Some  three  leagues  as  the  swart  crow  flies, 
A  little  stone-built  bridge  there  lies, — 
A  relic  of  the  Roman  day 
When  Caesar's  legions  held  the  sway 
Of  Gaul, — when  Roman  skill  and  art 
Subdued  the  might  of  Gallic  heart. 
Scarce  wider  than  the  dun  deer's  leap, 
Than  his  slim  fetlock  not  as  deep, 
With  dimpling  cheek  and  laughing  eye 
The  little  stream  goes  dancing  by. 


Beneath  its  rippling  wavelets  fleet 
The  hemlocks  bathe  their  gnarled  feet, 
O'er  it  the  oaks  their  strong  arms  cast 
To  shield  it  'gainst  the  boisterous  blast. 
Its  bottom  where  their  shadows  sleep 
With  fallen  leaves  is  bedded  deep. 


At  half  a  spear's  cast  from  the  bridge 
(Thatched  with  the  sun-dried  matted  sedge, 
Built  half  with  stone  and  half  with  peat, 
And  set  back  from  the  dusty  heat, 
That  all  day  shimmered  from  the  road, 
Winding  throughout  the  lonely  wood) 
A  little  hut,  with  vines  o'ergrown, 
Nestles  secluded  and  alone. 
Long  time  abandoned  had  it  stood 
In  quiet  peace  and  solitude. 
But  time  there  was,  the  legend  said, 
When  there  a  saintly  hermit  stayed. 
St.  Cuthbert  was  this  hermit's  name, 
And  to  the  wood,  the  bridge,  the  stream, 
The  name  of  Cuthbert  had  been  given 
Long  after  he  was  called  to  heaven. 
There  had  he  lived  while  life  remained  ; 
Though  oft  in  want,  he  ne'er  complained ; 
Bowed  down  with  age,  all  gaunt  and  gray, 
Telling  his  beads  the  live-long  day, 

48 


Clothed  in  the  penance  shirt  of  hair, 
And  nourished  on  the  meanest  fare; — 
Such  was  his  life, — but  of  his  death 
Were  rumors  blown  by  vulgar  breath, 
And  legends,  various  and  quaint, 
Clung  to  the  mem'ry  of  the  saint. 
Some  said  to  him  it  had  been  given 
To  be  translated  straight  to  heaven. 
But  some,  that,  when  he  saw  at  last 
Death's  shadow  o'er  his  threshold  cast, 
With  feeble  hands  and  fluttering  heart 
He  scooped  himself  a  grave  apart, 
And,  from  some  sacred,  secret  hole, 
Drew  forth  a  crook  and  'broidered  stole, 
Robes  of  a  long-forgotten  day, 
Yet  stiff  with  gold  and  rich  display; 
When  in  this  faded  pomp  arrayed 
Within  his  grave  himself  he  laid, 
Open  upon  his  breast  his  book, 
His  thin  hands  clasped  above  the  crook, 
Telling  his  prayers  with  latest  breath, 
Waiting  with  steadfast  air  for  death. 
That  when,  in  deepest  shades  of  night, 
His  struggling  spirit  winged  its  flight, 
Unearthly  hands  in  earthly  toil 
Filled  in  the  grave  with  upturned  soil. 
However  it  was,  the  anchorite 
Had  long  since  passed  from  mortal  sight, 

49 


Leaving  the  hut  forgotten,  lone, 

To  be  with  velvet  moss  o'ergrown, 

Till,  flying  from  the  world  of  men, 

Light-headed  from  his  gnawing  pain, 

Sir  Caverlaye  of  Voysvenel 

There  came,  in  solitude  to  dwell. 

Here  had  he  come,  but  not  in  guise 

Of  hermit  meek,  with  downcast  eyes, 

But  housed  in  proof  and  lance  in  hand, 

And  on  his  thigh  his  four-foot  brand, 

His  war-horse  sheathed  in  panoply, 

A  very  type  of  errantry. 

Within  his  breast  the  swelling  pain 

At  length  had  touched  his  trembling  brain, 

His  thoughts  unguided  and  overwhelmed 

Like  barks  storm-driven  and  unhelmed. 

And  so  he'd  fallen  upon  a  way 

Not  rare  with  ancient  chivalry. 

Upon  the  bridge's  head  all  day, 

Mounted  and  armed  for  instant  fray, 

He  kept  his  post  'till  dewy  night; 

Vowed  to  engage  each  coming  knight. 

The  woodman,  with  his  fagots  bare, 

The  cow-herd,  with  his  lowing  care, 

The  huntsman,  laden  with  his  game, 

The  soldier,  singing  as  he  came, 

And  the  stout  burgher  bent  on  gain, 

Surrounded  with  his  well-armed  train, — 

50 


All  these  he  let  pass  by  unrecked ; 
All  these  pursued  their  way  unchecked. 
But  he  beneath  his  vow  was  laid 
On  faith  and  holy  relics  made, 
That  soon  as  e'er  his  vizored  eye 
Atween  the  tree-boles  should  descry 
An  errant  warrior's  armor  bright, 
Then  straight  he  should  prepare  for  fight, 
Arouse  his  steed,  level  his  lance, 
And  do  him  combat  ci  I'outrance, 


And  bear  him  chivalrous  and  well, 
All  in  the  name  of  Yvernelle  ! 
But  lonely  was  that  forest  vast, 
And  on  that  road  there  seldom  passed 
Or  soldier,  serf,  or  wayfarer, 
And  rare  the  burgher  traveller, 
And  rarer  still  the  errant-knight. 
A  score  of  times  day's  ruddy  light 

51 


'Neath  western  trees  had  sunk  its  ray, 
And  still  none  such  had  passed  that  way, 
Until  one  day,  when  noon  was  high, 
And  Caverlaye  at  rest  did  lie, 
(Though  armored  still  from  head  to  heel,) 
Breaking  his  frugal  mid-day  meal. 
Stretched  on  the  grass,  where  yet  was  dew, 
Within  the  shade  the  cabin  threw, 
At  once  his  dozing  Norway  hound 
Rose  to  his  haunches  from  the  ground, 
Upreared  his  neck  and  frontlet  proud, 
Sniffed  twice  the  air,  then  bayed  aloud. 
And  then  hard  by  the  streamlet's  dance, 
There  picketed  unto  his  lance, 
There  came  a  shrill  neigh  from  his  steed, 
Like  trumpet-call  to  knightly  deed. 


And  scarce  the  echo  of  such  sound 
Had  died  away  the  woods  around, 
When  on  Sir  Caverlaye's  quick  ear 
Came  noise  of  hoof-beats  drawing  near, 
And  sound  of  jingling  mail  there  came 
That  set  his  blood  in  quivering  flame. 
'Twas  close  at  hand,  'twas  on  the  road, 
Near  and  more  near  the  hoof-beats  trod ; 
They  reached  the  banks  with  hollow  tread, 
They  halted  at  the  bridge's  head. 

52 


Caverlaye  paused  no  more  to  hear, 

Though  girt  with  plate,  e'en  like  a  deer 

He  bounded  downward  toward  the  brook, 

Eager  upon  his  foe  to  look. 

Ay,  there  he  stood,  the  wished-for  knight, 

In  mail  and  gleaming  harness  dight, 

Nor  moved,  nor  stirred,  nor  came,  nor  went: 

A  rigid,  steel-carved  monument. 

His  helm,  a  casque  of  Norman  peak, 

A  camail  covered  lips  and  cheek ; 

Of  samite  red  the  hauberk  o'er 

A  sleeveless  coat-of-arms  he  wore. 

A  mighty  shield  fenced  o'er  with  plate 

Struck  neck  and  heel, — a  pond'rous  weight. 

His  gauntlets  were  of  leather  made, 

With  boss  and  rivet  bright  arrayed ; 

Of  crarnoisy,  with  gold  in-spun, 

A  blazoned  caparison 

Enwrapped  his  steed  from  black  forelock 

To  far  below  the  very  hock ; 

At  his  steel  saddle-bow  his  sword; 

While  far  above  his  head  there  tower'd, 

So  high  it  struck  each  lower  branch, 

His  long  and  tap'ring  steel-shod  lance; 

His  shield  no  cognizance  displayed, 

No  crest  nor  sign  his  name  betrayed; 

But  on  his  banneret  he  bare 

A  wyvern,  sejant,  field  of  vair. 

53 


All  at  a  glance  Sir  Caverlaye 
Beheld  him  stand  in  like  array, 
Vaulted  upon  his  eager  steed, 
Seized  his  huge  lance  like  hollow  reed, 
And  cried  in  thunder  accents,  "  Hold  ! 
Back  on  your  life,  Sir  Warrior  bold. 
Know  that  all  such  as  here  pass  by 
Do  first  my  challenge  underlie; 
And  further  know  that  here  I  stand, 
In  harness  dight  and  lance  in  hand, 
For  fair  or  foul,  for  soon  or  late, 
To  keep  this  bridge  in  armed  debate 
Against  all  comers,  high  or  low ; 
And  more,  I  give  thee  here  to  know, 
And  unto  all  do  I  proclaim, 
That  this  I  purpose  in  the  name 
Of  Yvernelle,  of  Brittomarte, 
The  sovereign  lady  of  my  heart. 

54 


Her  do  I  name  the  fairest  maid 
That  ever  nerved  a  warrior's  blade; 
The  fairest  that  can  e'er  be  found 
On  Paynim  or  on  Christian  ground ; 
And  if  a  lady-love  you  claim, 
Were  she  the  most  transcendent  dame 
Beneath  the  sun,  yet  do  I  swear 
Than  Yvernelle  she  is  less  fair." 
The  black  brows  of  the  Wyvern  Knight 
Below  his  casque  gleamed  dark  as  night, 
And  in  a  voice  pitched  deep  and  low 
Thus  he  made  answer  to  his  foe : 
"'Tis  well  for  thee,  beau-pere  at  arms, 
That  in  war's  hazards  and  alarms 
I  am  forbidden  to  take  part, 
Though  in  a  cause  dear  to  my  heart, 
Else  would  my  lady's  colors  gay 
Ride  down  thine  own  in  instant  fray, 
And  the  fair  name  of  Isabelle 
Would  yet  be  talisman  to  quell. 
But  me,  my  holy  vows  restrain ; 
My  lance  I  ne'er  must  couch  again 
Till  I  shall  couch  it  at  the  breast 
Of  him  who  is  my  present  quest; 
For  upon  vengeance  I  am  boune 
For  deep  wrong  unto  sister  done. 
Him  do  I  seek  who  flung  disdain 
Upon  a  house  without  a  stain, 

55 


Who  cast  contumely  and  shame 

On  Guhaldrada's  peerless  name !" 

With  mighty  shout  that  shook  for  ire, 

With  eyes  that  blazed  like  living  fire, 

Sir  Caverlaye  burst  forth  apace : 

"Then  seek  no  further,  by  God's  grace 

Let  thy  long  quest  be  ended  here. 

Couch,  couch  for  vengeance,  couch  thy  spear, 

And  may  St.  Michael  bless  the  chance 

That  brings  such  quarrel  to  my  lance. 

I — I  am  he  whom  thus  you  seek, 

On  me  you  must  your  vengeance  wreak; 

To  Guhaldrada  do  I  owe 

All  my  inheritance  of  woe. 

'Tis  she  who  by  accursed  spell 

Hath  torn  the  heart  of  Yvernelle; 

'Tis  she  wrought  all  our  misery, 

And  with  the  name  of  craven  she — 

No,  further  speech  were  wasted  air. 

Go,  take  thy  ground  for  thy  career." 


No  more  was  said ;   to  take  their  ground 
Each  warrior  wheeled  his  steed  around 
Six  times  their  spears'  length  on  the  road, 
Passed  from  each  other,  turned  and  stood. 
Then  silence  fell, — both  were  opposed. 
Sir  Caverlaye  his  vizor  closed, 

56 


Loosened  his  sword  within  its  sheath, 
Steadied  his  short  and  quivering  breath, 
Gave  one  thought  to  fair  Yvernelle, 
One  thought  that  made  his  bosom  swell, 
One  hurried  prayer  to  Heaven  addressed, 
Then  slowly  brought  his  lance  to  rest. 
In  silence  dread  they  stood  short  space 
For  mortal  combat  face  to  face, 
Till,  sharp  and  ringing  as  the  clang 
Of  arbalist,  there  sudden  rang 
The  battle-shout  of  Caverlaye, 
That  gave  the  signal  for  the  fray. 


Then  with  a  furious  tiger-bound 
Each  war-horse  left  his  chosen  ground 
And,  frenzied  with  the  spur's  deep  gash, 
Sprang  forward  with  a  jingling  crash. 

57 


The  earth  shook  in  their  gallop  fleet 
And  thundered  'neath  their  iron  feet; 
The  wood  the  roar  re-echoed  clear 
As  each  swept  down  in  full  career; 
Right  on  the  bridge's  keystone  rock 
They  closed  in  fierce  and  fearful  shock, — 
With  equal  force,  with  equal  skill, 
Yet  not  with  equal  fortune  still. 


Knightly  and  well  the  stranger  came, 

Unerring  was  his  lance's  aim, — 

Upon  its  centre  fair  and  true 

He  smote  Sir  Caverlaye's  £CM, 

And  from  its  surface  glancing  quick 

His  lance  tore  through  the  cuirass  thick, 

Rent  wide  a  wound  within  his  breast, 

Then,  sudden,  splintered  to  the  fist. 

Yet  Caverlaye  right  onward  pressed 

Full  on  his  foe's  broad  mail-fenced  breast. 

He  drave  his  lance  in  knightly  way,— 

Out  in  the  air  a  shining  spray 

Of  burnished  steel-wrought  links  there  flew ; 

The  hauberk  stout  the  lance  passed  through, 

With  blood  the  shaft  was  all  besprent, 

His  foe  to  his  steed's  loins  was  bent 

Across  his  high-backed  saddle-bow, 

His  spine  was  fiercely  snapped  in  two, 

58 


From  breast  to  neck  the  mail  was  ripped. 
Sir  Caverlaye's  sharp  lance-point  slipped ; 
Beneath  his  chin  it  caught  again, 
And,  though  bent  bow-like  with  the  strain, 
Held  him  suspended  by  the  head 
And  fairly  bore  him  from  his  steed. 
With  mighty  prowess  was  he  flung 
To  earth,  in  dust,  his  harness  rung ; 
Thrice  o'er  he  rolled  upon  the  land, 
Thrice  his  crooked  fingers  dug  the  sand, 
But  scarce  the  loam  fouled  his  rich  coat 
Sir  Caverlaye  was  at  his  throat; 
One  mailed  knee  he  firmly  pressed 
Upon  his  gasping,  laboring  breast, 
Raised  his  keen  misericorde  on  high 
And  shouted,  "  Yield  thee,  Knight,  or  die !" 
Then,  all  at  once  the  brandished  blade 
Dropped  from  his  grasp, — he  feebly  swayed, 
Muttered  the  name  of  Yvernelle, 
Then  lifeless  on  the  dying  fell ! 


How  long  in  swooning  spell  he  lay 

Sir  Caverlaye  could  never  say. 

The  last  act  he  recalled  aright 

Was  that  he  couched  his  lance  for  fight, 

Gathered  the  reins  within  his  hand, 

And  raised  his  shout  of  stern  command. 

59 


And  then  all  sights  became  a  blur, 
All  noises  strange  and  mingled  whirr; 
There  came  a  sense  of  motion  swift, 
Fleeter  than  fleetest  storm-cloud's  drift; 
Then  sudden  'thwart  his  darkened  sight 
Shot  blood-red  streaks  of  forked  light ; 
Within  his  ears  a  humming  sound 
Like  flow  of  rivers  underground  ; 
And  then  a  tightening  of  the  brain, 
So  fierce  it  seemed  the  mighty  strain 
Must  burst,  perforce,  his  burning  head ; 
And  then  it  seemed  as  he  were  sped 
Down  through  a  fathomless  abyss 
Blacker  than  farthest  shades  of  Dis; 
And  all  the  springs  that  ever  burst 
He  thought  would  fail  to  quench  his  thirst. 
The  very  air,  thickened  with  heat, 
Throbbed  on  his  frame  with  measured  beat, 
While  the  red  vortex  of  the  fire 
Burned  in  his  breast  with  furious  ire. 
Nor  space,  nor  place,  nor  time  he  knew ; 
From  him  the  mortal  world  withdrew. 
When  the  impenetrable  gloom 
Dissolving,  showed  a  darkened  room, 
The  scorching  fire  which  did  him  clasp 
He  felt  had  been  the  fever's  grasp, 
And  the  hot  fire  his  bosom  bound 
He  knew  had  been  a  grievous  wound. 

60 


Within  the  hermit's  hut  he  lay ; 

Not  on  his  scanty  bed  of  hay, 

But  on  a  couch  which  courted  sleep, 

Sunken  in  cushions  soft  and  deep; 

And  by  degrees  he  was  aware 

Of  lordly  meinie  gathered  near. 

The  door  was  draped,  but  from  without 

Came  noise  of  speech  and  merry  shout. 

Steeds  pawed,  arms  clashed,  and  to  and  fro 

Before  the  cabin's  door-way  low 


-^ 


Passed  many  a  tread  in  bustling  haste, 
As  though  some  lordly  camp  was  placed, 
Now,  as  his  consciousness  returned, 
And  as  his  reason  brighter  burned, 


61 


He  felt  his  swathed  and  heated  head 

Within  a  rounded  arm  was  laid; 

And  then,  close  to  his  lowly  bed, 

His  roving  eye  at  length  was  stayed 

By  sight  of  feminine  attire. 

He  raised  his  straying  glances  higher, 

Upward  the  silken  folds  pursued, 

Until  their  wearer's  face  he  viewed, — 

Viewed  unmistakably  and  clear. 

Then,  "  Guhaldrada  !  art  thou  here  ?" 

And  quick,  in  trembling  speech,  she  cried : 

"  Oh,  do  not  drive  me  from  thy  side ! 

Turn  not  away  in  wrath  again, 

Nor  greet  me  with  deserved  disdain ; 

Forget  each  taunt  I  e'er  let  fall, 

And  only  how  I  loved  recall* 

Vent  not  reproach  or  scorn  on  me, 

For  that  I  could  not  live  from  thee. 

Once  I  believed  myself  to  stand 

The  proudest  woman  in  the  land ; 

But  love  was  stronger,  dear,  than  pride ; 

For  you  I've  flung  it  all  aside, 

Braved  evil  speech,  braved  e'en  disgrace, 

Once  more  to  look  upon  thy  face. 

The  day  you  left  my  castle  hall 

I  thought  my  heart  was  changed  to  gall, 

And  while  my  heart  still  hotly  burned 

For  vengeance  to  my  brother  turned ; 


So  with  my  words  inflamed  his  mind 

That,  with  a  vow,  he  did  him  bind 

That  fair  or  foul,  whate'er  betide, 

Upon  thy  traces  he  would  ride; 

Seek  thee  without  the  realm  of  France, 

And  do  thee  combat,  lance  to  lance. 

And  so  departed ;   and  I  thought 

That  peace  of  mind  at  length  was  bought. 

But,  when  all  things  were  done  and  said, 

When  thought  succeeded  word  and  deed, 

The  anger  sprung  from  wounded  pride 

Began  within  me  to  subside, 

And  love,  I  deemed  fled  utterly, 

Struggled  once  more  for  mastery. 

Still  its  approaches  I  defied, 

And  battled  with  my  stubborn  pride. 

Ah,  thou  canst  never,  never  know 

The  misery  of  those  days  of  woe. 

I  tried  to  stifle  my  regret 

Because  my  brother  I  had  set 

To  track  thee  with  resentment  fierce, 

Sworn  with  his  lance  thy  heart  to  pierce. 

Within  the  turmoil  of  my  brain 

I  seemed  to  see  thee  foully  slain; 

The  eyes  in  which  I  wont  to  gaze 

Dulled  with  the  film  of  deathly  glaze; 

The  voice  which  once  was  dearest  sound 

In  death's  chill  silence  ever  bound; 


Thy  lips,  twin  warders  of  thy  breath, 
Sealed  with  the  signet  pale  of  death. 
All  I  once  loved  and  called  my  own 
Dying  unfriended  and  alone. 
And  this,  thy  death,  I — I  had  willed ; 
'Twas  by  my  hand  that  thou  wast  killed. 
At  me,  poor  conscience-stricken  wretch, 
Thy  lifejess  finger  seemed  to  stretch 
In  mute  reproach ;   thy  latest  breath 
Named  me  the  author  of  thy  death, 
And  every  wound  in  thy  loved  corse 
With  red  lips  seemed  to  gasp,  ( Remorse  P 
At  length  pride  yielded  to  the  strain; 
I  only  knew  I  loved  again. 
Hard  on  my  brother's  northward  trace 
I  followed  fast  with  eager  pace, 
My  mad  decision  to  revoke 
Though  'twere  a  hundred  vows  he  broke. 
To  change  his  mood  and  purpose  dire, 
To  save  thee  from  his  burning  ire, 
To  shield  thee  from  all  haps  and  harms, 
Once  more  to  fold  thee  in  these  arms. 
I  came  too  late ;   deep  in  the  wood, 
Stretched  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
I  found  thee  here,  his  breast  thy  bed; 
Bleeding  and  lifeless, — all  but  dead. 
By  scarce  a  point  of  time  too  late 
To  save  thee  from  the  dread  debate; 

64 


But  not  too  late,  as  now,  at  length 
To  love  thee  back  to  life  and  strength. 
And  now,  mine  own,  my  well  beloved, 
When  such  a  boundless  love  is  proved, 
When  all  my  pride,  you  see,  is  dead, 
And  all  my  old  resentment  fled, 
Surely  thy  heart  is  not  so  stern 
But  it  can  make  some  slight  return? 
And  if  'tis  so, —  if  thou  art  rock, 
And  'gainst  my  love  your  heart  you  lock, — 
Do  but  beside  thee  let  me  dwell, 
And  I  will  love  thee,  love  so  well, 
Will  be  so  kind,  so  patient  hope, 
That  e'en  thy  heart  at  last  will  ope. 
Even  the  rock,  though  chill  the  blast, 
Is  by  the  sunbeam  warmed  at  last. 
And  I  know  all  that  hath  been  done 
Since  last  we  met, — this  other  one, — 
How  that  she  scorned  your  proffered  hand 
And  banished  thee  from  her  proud  land. 
A  thing  of  changing  wile  and  art, 
She  was  not  worthy  of  thy  heart. 
Forget  her!"     Quick  Sir  Caverlaye 
Rose  on  his  elbow  and  cried,  "Stay; 
Thus  far  in  patience  have  I  heard, 
But  of  her  name  breathe  not  a  word. 
'Twere  treason  'gainst  a  memory  dear, 
And  treason  worse  for  me  to  hear." 


"Thou  lov'st  her  yet?"     "Ay,  and  e'er  shall. 

Would  it  were  given  me  to  fall 

But  now  in  battle  for  her  name, 

To  prove  my  love's  undying  flame !" 

"And  art  thou,  then,  so  abject  grown 

That  thou  canst  fix  thy  heart  upon 

One  that  repels  that  heart  in  scorn, 

And  for  thy  love  gives  in  return 

Contemptuous  and  haughty  look, 

Who  e'en  thy  presence  cannot  brook?" 

But  calmly  Caverlaye  replied : 

"Mine  own  respect  and  knightly  pride 

Are  not  sunk  lower  in  love's  war 

Than  woman's  who  could  follow  far, 

In  guise  unmaidenly  and  bold, 

One  who  was  manifestly  cold, 

And  when  she  plainly  saw  and  knew 

His  heart  was  to  another  true." 


v 


But  Guhaldrada  bowed  her  head, 

And  to  his  words  she  simply  said : 

"If,  then,  I  so  forgot  my  pride 

As  thus  upon  thy  steps  to  ride, 

Think  not  with  words  of  slight  or  blame 

That  thou  canst  sting  me  into  shame." 

More  had  she  said,  but  Caverlaye, 

Impatient  of  a  longer  stay, 

Rose,  and,  with  wrild  eyes  dimmed  with  dew, 

About  his  neck  her  arms  she  threw. 

"  No,  no,  thou  shalt  not  leave  me  so ! 

I  will  not,  cannot  let  thee  go ! 

Ah,  surely  heart  of  stone  is  thine 

To  be  unmoved  by  love  like  mine !" 

He  rose  impetuous  to  his  knee, 

And  cried,  "  Unhand  me,  let  me  flee ! 

Here  every  moment  that  I  dwell 

Is  foulest  wrong  to  Yvernelle  !" 

Then  she  grew  passionate  and  wild ; 

Nor  closer  mother  to  her  child 

E'er  clung,  when  strong,  blood-thirsty  grasp 

Threatened  to  tear  it  from  her  clasp, 

Than  she,  with  lovely,  upturned  face, 

Clung  to  his  neck  in  fond  embrace. 

In  vain,  with  words  and  stern  commands, 

He  strove  to  loose  her  tender  hands; 

And  as  with  angel  fair  and  bright 

Once  Jacob  wrestled  through  the  night, 

67 


So,  risen  on  his  bended  knee, 
With  her  he  wrestled  to  be  free, 
And  still  he  shouted,  "  Let  me  go  !" 
And  still  she  clung  and  cried,  "  No,  no !" 
And  then  once  more,  with  low,  soft  speech, 
She  strove  his  fixed  heart  to  reach. 
"Oh,  my  beloved,  dost  think  to  quell 
The  love  that  in  my  heart  doth  dwell 
By  words  or  e'en  by  deeds  of  hate? 
My  love  thy  scorn  cannot  abate. 
Behold,  the  very  lips  that  frame 
The  cruel  words  of  taunt  and  shame 
I  kiss  in  love  and  tenderness; 
For  curse  returning  a  caress." 
Scarcely  her  lips  on  his  did  close 
When,  with  a  bound,  the  Knight  arose ; 
For,  swifter  than  the  quivering  spark 
Of  lightning  'thwart  the  midnight  dark, 
A  thought  had  flashed  across  his  brain, 
Filling  his  life  with  light  again. 
So  fierce  and  hurriedly  he  spoke 
His  words  for  very  haste  did  choke : 
"Now  let  thy  curse  fall  back  on  thee; 
The  kiss  that  blights  thee  sets  me  free  ! 
The  very  lips  that  curse  hath  passed 
Are  those  which  lift  it  now  at  last ! 
'Gainst  innocence  you  railed  your  worst, 
Now  by  your  own  spell  are  you  cursed. 


The  worst  that  I  could  wish  for  you 
Is  that  your  own  words  may  come  true: 
*  Cursed  were  the  lips  that  next  should  press 
Mine  own  in  lovers'  fond  caress; 
On  her  who  next  should  press  them  first 
Numberless  ills  and  woes  should  burst. 
From  that  same  moment  foulest  shame 
Should  like  a  blight  beset  her  name, — 
That  kiss  should  e'en  become  a  blot 
Upon  her  life,  and,  fest'ring,  rot, 
And  like  a  canker  ever  grow, 
Until  it  had  consumed  slow 
Her  friends,  her  peace,  her  love,  her  life, 
Turned  fellowship  to  mortal  strife, 
Made  her  abhorred  of  her  own  mind, 
Her  name  a  byword  to  mankind, 
And  like  that  born  of  Judas'  breath, 
'Twould  be  the  herald  of  her  death.' 
Such  were  thy  words.     Farewell  to  thee ; 
The  kiss  that  blights  thee  sets  me  free ! " 


Fled  was  her  strength,  relaxed  her  clasp, 
And  from  her  feeble,  loosening  grasp 
He  freed  himself  with  gesture  rude. 
In  weary  grief  and  lassitude 
Down  to  the  couch  where  he  had  lain 
She  flung  herself,  in  mute,  numb  pain, 


And  buried  deep  her  lovely  head 

Within  the  cushions  he  had  fled ; 

Broken  she  lay  upon  the  floor. 

He  looked  not  back, — he  gained  the  door, 

He  passed  once  more  to  daylight  clear, 

Leaped  on  the  steed  that  first  was  near ; 

Right  through  the  thronging  camp  he  pressed; 

And  ere  the  wond'ring  meinie  guessed 

The  cause  of  his  wild  disarray 

Forth  from  the  spot  he'd  sped  away, 

And  his  steed's  hoof-beats  as  he  rode 

Were  lessening  on  the  distant  road. 

But  from  their  speculations  vain 

The  followers  of  that  lordly  train 

Were  summoned  soon  to  graver  care; 

For,  with  a  sad  and  solemn  air, 

The  seneschal,  Sir  D'Entraguy, 

Forth  issuing  from  where  did  lie, 

Mangled  and  broken  from  the  fray, 

The  recent  foe  of  Caverlaye, 

Passed  through  their  midst  and  sadly  said : 

"  My  Lord  Tentiniac  soon  is  dead ; 

Where  is  his  sister,  that  she  may 

Once  see  him  e'er  he  pass  away?" 

Whereat  some  silent  turned  aside, 

And  others  strove  a  smile  to  hide, 

And  some  a  shoulder  slightly  raised, 

Or  meaningly  upon  him  gazed, 

70 


Until  one,  marked  of  knightly  grade, 
In  cruel  bluntness  roughly  said: 
"But  now  she  tarried  with  the  Knight 
Who  rode  her  brother  down  in  fight." 
More  sad  than  angry,  D'Entraguy 
Turned  to  the  hermit's  hut  near  by, 
And  met  his  lady  as  she  came, 
Supported  by  attendant  dame. 
"  Thy  brother,"  thus  he  gently  said, — 
"  Thy  brother,  lady,  soon  is  dead." 
"  My  brother  dies  !     Oh,  woe  on  woe  ! 
The  curse's  poison  is  not  slow  I" 
No  more  she  spake,  but  flew  before, 
And  stooping  at  the  tent's  low  door, 
Before  the  pallet  rude  and  drear 
(Soon  to  become  her  brother's  bier) 
She  sank,  and,  calling  him  by  name, 
Aroused  life's  faint  and  flick'ring  flame. 
But  not  in  love  his  eyes  grew  wide; 
Or  e'er  he  knew  at  his  bedside 
His  sister's  form,  how  stern  he  gazed ! 
Feebly  the  trembling  arm  was  raised. 
His  words'  disjointed,  guttural  sound 
(For  the  sharp  lance's  hideous  wound 
Had  crushed  his  jaw  and  cleft  his  tongue) 
Still  rung  with  hatred  deep  and  strong. 
But  though  strange  sounds  begat  his  throat 
That  seemed  not  of  the  human  note, 

71 


She  read  his  features  but  too  well; 

His  look  was  unmistakable, 

And  thus  it  spoke  with  meaning  clear: 

"Stretched  mangled  on  my  death-bed  here 

For  sake  of  thee  I  part  with  life; 

By  thee  was  I  urged  to  this  strife, 

And  eagerly  I  pledged  my  faith 

To  fight  thy  quarrel  to  the  death. 

For  then  I  thought  'twas  for  a  cause 

That  merited  high  honor's  laws; 

And  thy  betrayer  had  I  slain, 

And  in  his  blood  purged  out  the  stain, 

With  heart  that  knew  itself  aright; 

Or  if  the  chances  of  the  fight, 

As  now,  had  snapped  life's  tightening  thread, 

And  I  been  counted  with  the  dead, 

Fearless  at  death  had  been  my  glance, 

In  knightly  wise  with  couchant  lance. 

But  was  it  thus?     No,  by  God's  Host, 

Mine  honor  with  my  life  is  lost. 

When  that  we  met  and  it  was  mine 

To  be  unhorsed  with  shattered  spine, 

A*.  \  when  you  came  upon  us  twain, 

You  cared  not  were  I  hurt  or  slain, 

You  thought  not,  no,  nor  cast  one  glance, — 

Your  only  fear  was  lest  my  lance 

The  traitor's  heart  had  cleft  or  no. 

Ah  !   would  to  God  it  had  been  so ! 


72 


From  me,  who  took  my  life  in  hand 

To  satisfy  your  proud  command, 

In  wild  forgetfulness  you  turned 

To  him  whom  most  you  should  have  spurned,- 

Your  traitor  in  your  arms  did  bear, 

Your  brother  left  to  menial  care ! 

And  while  I  lay  in  cold  neglect, 

Tended  by  slaves  with  grudged  respect, 

Your  care,  your  thought,  your  ev'ry  power 

Were  lavished  on  your  paramour, 

And  I  had  died  without  a  thought 

If  hither  you  had  not  been  brought 

By  vassal  faithful  still  and  true, 

Who  felt  the  shame  forgot  by  you. 

I  knew  not  'twas  for  you  he  went, — 

Believe  me,  I  would  ne'er  have  sent 

To  tear  you  from  your  lover's  side, — 

Sooner  abandoned  had  I  died 

Than  to  have  reft  one  moment  dear 

From  those  passed  in  his  tender  care. 

I  marVel  that  thou  cam'st  at  all; 

Go,  seek  him,  lest  in  vain  he  call ; 

Go,  thy  seducer  vile  to  nurse, 

But  going,  take  my  dying  curse !" 


Next  day  upon  the  streamlet's  verge 
Sounded  the  mournful  funeral  dirge; 

73 


With  trailing  arms  and  spears  reversed 
The  men-at-arms  his  body  hearsed : 
Between  the  bridge  where  last  he  fought 
And  the  deserted  hermit's  cot. 


The  grave  is  closed,  the  tapers  gleam ; 
With  blessed  water  from  the  stream 
The  chaplain  wets  the  new-made  mound ; 
Bare-headed  stands  the  crowd  around, 
And  Guhaldrada,  veiled  in  weed, 
Leans  like  a  weak  and  broken  reed 
Upon  the  women  of  her  train 
While  sounds  the  Miserere's  strain. 
But,  when  the  last  prayer  had  been  said 
In  benediction  for  the  dead, 

74 


And  when  the  last  and  mournful  rite 

Was  ended  for  the  perished  knight, 

With  sullen  port  and  silence  strained 

The  knights  and  men-at-arms  remained, 

Till  even  Guhaldrada's  eyes 

Glanced  round  the  throng  in  pained  surprise, 

And  saw  how  in  determined  mood 

Each  mailed  warrior  gloomy  stood, — 

Saw  with  a  quick  presentiment 

That  from  her  heart  its  warm  blood  sent, 

Till  D'Entraguy  before  the  rest 

Stood  forward  and  such  speech  addressed : 

"  Lady,  thy  brother  was  our  lord  ; 

Dishonor  was  of  him  abhorred. 

We  were,  we  are  his  vassals  leal ; 

Who  did  him  wrong  wronged  us  as  well, 

And  (since  strong  deed  strong  word  demands) 

Foul  wrong  was  done  him  at  thy  hands. 

We  honor  and  we  love  him  still, 

And  one  who  did  him  deadly  ill 

We're  bound  no  longer  to  obey. 

On  this  his  mournful  burial  day 

We  each  and  severally  resolve 

Our  ties  of  homage  to  dissolve; 

Did  he  still  live,  we  all  do  know 

He  would  approve  of  what  we  do. 

And  more,  though  this  were  set  aside, 

Longer  with  thee  we  would  not  bide; 

75 


Beneath  a  flag  we  would  not  stir 

That  bore  the  dark  bar  sinister. 

Our  banner  must  have  no  defect; 

We  cannot  serve  without  respect. 

Such  yoke  upon  our  neck  would  gall ; 

So  we  decide — I  speak  for  all — 

Thus,  once  for  all,  and  all  at  once, 

My  leal  allegiance  I  renounce." 

Forth  from  his  sheath  his  sword  he  drew, 

Snapped  its  broad,  glittering  blade  in  two, 

Then,  without  rage  or  passion's  heat, 

Dropped  the  two  pieces  at  her  feet. 

On  Guhaldrada's  forehead  dark 

Her  pride's  last  faint  surviving  spark 


7fi 


Flamed  like  an  adder's  swelling  crest, 
Then  died  forever  in  her  breast. 
Of  all  the  movements  that  ensued 
She  nothing  heard,  she  nothing  viewed, 
But  gazed  without  one  sign  or  word 
On  the  bright  fragments  of  the  sword, 
Until  she  heard  the  trumpet's  blast, 
And  saw  her  parting  knights  file  past, 
Pass  o'er  the  bridge  in  silent  mood 
And  on  the  far  side  gain  the  road. 


Still  with  her  stayed  three  maidens  true, 
And  of  her  men-at-arms  but  two; 


77 


And  as  she  saw  herself  thus  left 
Of  friends,  of  honor,  love  bereft, 
"  My  curse  has  fall'n  on  me  I"  she  said ; 
"  Storms  are  redoubling  on  my  head ; 
My  lips  are  cursed  since  they  did  press 
His  own  in  love  and  tenderness; 
All  their  life's  deep  and  ruby  hue 
Fled  from  that  pledge  of  lovers  true. 
That  moment's  brief  and  transient  bliss, 
That  followed  that  one  parting  kiss 
Which  set  my  cheek  in  scarlet  glow, 
Was  e'en  the  last  I  e'er  shall  know. 
From  that  same  moment  foulest  shame 
Clings  like  a  fungus  to  my  name. 
Black  evil  crouches  at  my  back; 
Misfortune  presses  on  my  track. 
Sealed  by  that  kiss  my  fate  is  doomed ; 
Its  curse,  swift-spreading,  hath  consumed 
Friends,  brother,  peace,  and  happiness, 
Filled  all  my  life  with  sore  distress, 
Made  me  abhorred  of  my  own  mind, 
My  name  a  byword  to  mankind ; 
And,  like  that  born  of  Judas'  breath, 
'Tis  the  forerunner  of  my  death. 
O'erwhelmed  by  brother's  dying  scorn, 
Blast  with  his  curse  of  hatred  born, 
The  object  of  retainers'  sneers, 
Of  every  serf's  that  hates  and  fears; 

78 


Dazed,  stunned,  bereft  of  every  hope, 
Eagerly  downward  do  I  grope, — 
Down  to  that  tomb,  my  only  rest, 
Down  to  that  self-dug  grave  unblest, 
Buried  in  ruin  self-devised, 
Disowned,  dishonored,  and  despised." 


-~£ 


HOW  SIR  CAVERLAYE  CAME  TO  BRITTOMARTE,  TO  KAERENRAIS, 
AND  WHAT   BEFELL   HIM   ON   THE   WAY. 


TURN  we  from  such  sad  scenes  away 
To  follow  after  Caverlaye. 
But  fast,  indeed,  must  be  our  flight 
An  we  o'ertake  the  fleeing  knight; 
Riding  as  pinioned  on  the  wind, 
St.  Cuthbert's  bridge  is  far  behind. 


The  underbrush  and  forest-trees 
Grow  scant  and  scanter  as  he  flees; 
Soon  he  is  out  of  the  dark  wood, 
E'en  as  he  leaves  his  once  dark  mood. 


With  every  nerve  at  tensest  strain 

His  foaming  steed  sweeps  o'er  the  plain. 

He  leaps  the  stream,  swift  as  a  dart, 

That  bounds  the  fief  of  Brittomarte, 

And  the  loud  hoofs,  with  thunderous  sound, 

Are  speeding  o'er  familiar  ground. 


Sir  Caverlaye's  impatient  mood 
Turned  him  from  out  the  beaten  road; 
And  'neath  the  sunset's  purple  shades 
He  struck  across  the  copse-wood  glades. 


At  once  hoarse  croaking  from  their  fare, 
A  cloud  of  ravens  rise  in  air, 
And  on  beholding  their  flock's  cause 
Sir  Caverlaye  cannot  but  pause. 
The  deer's  white  skeleton  there  lay 
Upon  the  turf  where,  on  that  day 
That  seemed  to  him  so  long  ago, 
Old  Raguenel  had  laid  him  low. 


Here,  then,  he  last  had  seen  her  face, 
Here,  then,  that  dreadful  scene  took  place. 
'Twas  there  she  stood  with  pallid  hue 
And  spoke  to  him  her  last  adieu. 

84 


Time  vanished, — long  months  passed  away; 
St.  George !  it  seemed  but  yesterday ! 
In  accents  low  and  sweet  tones  clear 
Her  parting  words  rang  in  his  ear, — 
"  Farewell  till  joined  beyond  death's  flood  ; 
I  wait  in  calm  and  trustful  mood." 
There  on  that  spot  she  turned  away, 
Casting  on  him  her  eyes'  last  ray. 


And  he — 'fore  God,  no  more,  no  more; 
Ride  on,  the  day  is  almost  o'er, 
On  till  he  cleared  the  waving  copse, 
And  sees  the  pinnacled  proud  tops 
Of  Brittomarte  flashing  the  ray 
Of  sunset  back  towards  dying  day. 


With  scrambling  leap  and  clattering  bound 
He  gains  the  causeway  that  winds  'round 
The  crag-girt  hill-side,  high  and  steep, 
Whereon  is  built  the  mighty  keep, 
And  on  the  draw  before  the  grate 
Now  lowered,  for  the  hour  is  late, 
He  reins  his  steed  and  loudly  calls, 
To  bring  the  warder  to  the  walls. 


Yet,  while  he  waited  for  reply, 
He  saw  with  apprehensive  eye 
That  where  once  joy  overflowed  each  tower, 
An  air  of  sadness  seemed  to  lower. 


Eising  above  the  donjon  vast, 

The  castle's  banner  at  half-mast; 

Above  the  deep  and  grated  door 

The  hatchment  was  with  black  hung  o'er. 

Within  the  wide  and  open  court, 

Where  once  were  scenes  of  noisy  sport, 

Where  jessed  falcons  flapped  and  screamed, 

Where  horses  pawed  and  lances  gleamed, 

Was  now  deserted,  cold,  and  gray; 

And  over  all  a  sadness  lay, 

Which  did  like  sadness  straight  impart 

To  Caverlaye's  fast-failing  heart. 

In  answer  to  repeated  call 

There  came  at  last  the  seneschal. 

Though  spent  with  years  and  hoary  gray, 

At  once  he  knew  Sir  Caverlaye. 

For  in  his  former  lusty  prime 

Sir  Caverlaye  full  many  a  time, 

A  gleeful,  roistering,  laughing  child, 

His  shoulders  bare  in  frolic  wild, 

Or  with  him  found  the  dun  deer's  haunts, 

Or  at  the  quintaine  aimed  his  lance. 


Soon  as  he  saw  his  well-known  knight 
Standing  without  in  grievous  plight, 
He  shouted  quick  to  raise  the  grate ; 
And  ere  its  chains  ceased  to  vibrate 
He  stood  at  his  steed's  saddle-bow 
With  welcome  words  and  friendly  show. 


Scant  courtesy  the  knight  vouchsafed : 
With  fierce  impatience  he  was  chafed. 
"How  now,  Sir  Hugh,  is  all  not  well? 
How  fares  my  Lady  Yvernelle? 
Why  flies  the  flag  half-masted  low? 
Speak  out.     What  mean  these  signs  of  woe?" 


"Foul  fell  the  day/7  Sir  Hugh  replied, 

"  That  you  departed  from  her  side. 

To  her  thou  shouldst  have  e'er  been  true. 

My  lord,  strange  tales  are  told  of  you. 

I  choose  to  think  that  the  Black  Art 

Hath  changed  in  thee  thy  once  firm  heart, — 

As  some  have  said, — than  to  suppose 

That  wittingly  thou'dst  bring  such  woes 

Upon  the  head  of  Yvernelle. 

No,  no,  Sir  Knight,  all  is  not  well. 

87 


"Sir  Raguenel,  when  thou  wast  gone, 

Mourned  as  it  were  an  only  son. 

At  times  his  rage  against  thee  burned, 

At  times  to  tears  his  ire  was  turned, 

Or  sat  for  hours  in  gloomy  mood, 

Or  rode  his  lands  in  solitude. 

For  days  from  us  he  would  be  gone, 

Riding  afar  and  riding  lone, 

Until  sweet  Yvernelle's  pale  face 

Recalled  him  to  his  'customed  place. 


"  I  tell  thee  true,  Sir  Caverlaye, 
From  that  same  day  you  passed  away 
She  drooped  and  pined  before  our  sight, 
Fading  with  each  day's  fading  light ; 
At  last  she  always  kept  her  bed, 
So  sweet,  so  pale,  so  mutely  sad, 
It  would  have  moved  a  heart  of  stone, 
Far  more,  Sir  Caverlaye,  thine  own. 


"  Until  one  memorable  night 

Her  eyes  seemed  lit  with  heavenly  light; 

So  pale  a  hue  was  o'er  her  cast 

We  deemed  each  moment  was  her  last. 

Thus  for  full  many  a  week  she  lay 

'Twixt  life  and  death, — -just  paused  half-way,- 


And  when  was  closed  that  anxious  strife 
And  she  was  given  back  to  life, 
All  that  which  life  made  once  so  fair 
Seemed  nought  and  profitless  to  her. 


"She  wished  to  bid  the  world  farewell, 
To  seek  the  nun's  secluded  cell; 
And  deemed  her  life  to  her  was  given 
But  to  become  the  bride  of  Heaven. 
All  Raguenel's  persuasions  failed ; 
Commands,  entreaties,  nought  availed  ; 
She  loved,  she  said,  her  guardian  well, 
But  duty  called  her  to  the  cell. 


"  The  chapel  of  the  castle  here 
She  daily  visited  in  prayer. 
Her  jewels,  robes,  her  fiefs  as  well, 
She  signed  away  to  Raguenel; 
The  remnant  of  her  dowery 
She  gave  away  in  charity. 


"  The  nunnery  of  Kaerenrais 
Lies  a  day's  journey  from  this  place. 
The  abbess  of  that  sisterhood, 
A  sainted  lady  and  a  good, 


Upon  fair  Yvernelle's  behest, 
Was  summoned  hither  as  a  guest. 


"But  no, — why  lengthen  out  the  tale? 
She  was  resolved  to  take  the  veil. 
And  thus  it  was  that  yesterday 
The  cavalcade  set  on  its  way, 
Seeking  with  slow  and  mournful  pace 
The  nunnery  of  Kaerenrais. 


Sir  Raguenel  led  them  in  the  van, — 
Grief  hath  much  changed  the  aged  man. 


"In  you  he  lost  an  only  son, 

In  Yvernelle  his  daughter  one, 

And  we,  their  friends, — forgive  these  tears 

Affections  grow  with  growing  years, — 


We've  lost  our  all, — lord,  lady,  knight, 

All  that  was  dearest  in  our  sight. 

Thee  I  reproach  not,  Caverlaye; 

Thou  know'st  thine  own  heart.     Go  thy  way." 


Sir  Caverlaye  sunk  from  his  steed 

And  on  the  saddle  bowed  his  head. 

"  Undone  !   undone  !"   he  hoarsely  moaned, 

And  clinched  his  palms  and  deeply  groaned. 


"And  thus  we  have,"  pursued  Sir  Hugh, 
"Our  hatchment  draped  in  sombre  hue; 
And  in  the  chapel,  'fore  the  shrine 
Nineteen  wax  tapers  burning  shine, 
And  nineteen  strokes  will  toll  the  bell 
To  mark  the  years  of  Yvernelle. 


"At  midnight  in  our  chapel  dim 
To-night  we  chant  the  mournful  hymn, 
And  say  a  mass  with  sombre  show, 
For  at  that  hour  to-night  we  know, 
Within  the  walls  of  Kaerenrais, 
The  ceremony  will  take  place, — 
That  final  step  which  Yvernelle 
Takes  ere  o'er  her  will  close  the  cell." 

91 


Sir  Caverlaye  upraised  his  head, 
And  to  Sir  Hugh  he  quickly  said : 
"Dost  say  her  vows  are  not  yet  ta'en? 
Speak  out,  Sir  Hugh,  tell  me  again 
The  nun's  black  veil  she  hath  not  donned, 
Nor  will  until  midnight  shall  sound?" 


"Ay,  thus  decided  Yvernelle; 
The  midnight's  chime  shall  be  her  knell, 
And  then  she  quits  the  realms  of  day." 
"  But  not  till  then  ?"  cried  Caverlaye. 
"Now  God  be  praised,  there  yet  is  time 
Before  that  midnight's  fateful  chime !" 


Then  fast  and  faster  grew  his  speech, — 
To  old  Sir  Hugh  his  hand  did  reach. 
"Sir  Hugh,  by  Heaven  I  swear  to  you, 
To  Yvernelle  I  e'er  was  true ; 
That  all  I  did  was  for  the  right, 
Though  circumstance  with  baleful  light 
Distorted  all  I  did  for  good. 
My  deed  was  e'er  misunderstood. 
And  time,  I  trow,  will  surely  prove 
The  purity  of  this  my  love. 
Canst  thou,  old  friend,  such  oath  believe? 
Unquestioning  my  tale  receive?" 

92 


Sir  Hugh  gazed  sternly  as  he  spoke, 
And  then  his  words  impulsive  broke : 
"Now  by  St.  George,  Sir  Caverlaye, 
I  will  believe  the  words  you  say. 
Thy  life-long  course  of  probity 
With  me  shall  be  thy  surety." 


"  Enough,  then,"  cries  Sir  Caverlaye, 
"No  longer  with  thee  must  I  stay. 
Quick, — frame  no  useless  questions,  man, — 
Bring  me  the  fleetest  steed  ye  can. 
Quick, — thy  best  movements  are  too  slow ! 
Minutes  are  very  hours  now." 


"But  where  away?"  Sir  Hugh  replied. 
"  To  Kaerenrais,"  the  knight  loud  cried. 
With  wild  impatience  stamped  his  heel 
Till  jingled  every  limb  with  steel. 


Obedient  to  Sir  Hugh's  loud  call, 
The  grooms  and  hostlers  from  his  stall 
Led  forth  a  proud  and  trampling  steed, 
His  muscles  swoll'n  with  pent-up  speed, 
His  blood-red  nostrils  rigid  gaped, 
Like  bended  bow  his  neck  was  shaped. 

93 


His  trembling  ear  caught  every  sound, 

Starting  thereat  with  furious  bound ; 

While  from  his  chest  his  mane  flowed  black, 

E'en  like  some  swarthy  cataract. 

His  rolling  eyeballs  gleamed  with  fire ; 

His  pride  and  rage,  his  fury  dire, 

The  struggling  grooms  could  scarce  restrain, 

Though  twenty  hands  tugged  at  the  rein. 


"  The  time  is  short,"  quoth  old  Sir  Hugh ; 

"A  toilsome  journey  lies  for  you, 

An  thou  wouldst  gain  far  Kaerenrais 

Ere  midnight.     It  will  test  the  pace 

Of  Bayard  to  its  utmost  strain. 

Spare  not  the  spur,  draw  not  the  rein." 


Sir  Caverlaye  sprang  to  the  selle, 

Yet  paused  to  say,  "  Sir  Hugh,  farewell ; 

Unless  I  bring  her  back  with  me 

Never  again  my  face  thou'lt  see. 

Let  go  the  bit,  my  merrie  men; 

Now,  Bayard,  to  thy  mettle  strain." 


An  instant,  the  dropped  drawbridge  o'er, 
The  hoof-beats  sound  with  hollow  roar,' 

94 


A  rattle  on  the  causeway's  stone, 
A  cloud  of  dust,  and  he  is  gone; 
Gone  like  the  whistling  steel-sprung  dart, 
Gone  like  the  tracked  fleet-footed  hart, 
Gone  like  a  witch  o'er  foss  and  fell, 
To  save  his  lady,  Yvernelle ! 


Fain  would  I  tell  thee  of  that  ride, 
Of  Bayard's  mighty,  swinging  stride, 
That  seemed  to  wing  above  the  earth 
Flying  beneath  his  spattered  girth. 


My  tardy  Muse  lags  far  behind 

A  speed  that  tires  the  panting  wind. 

She  cannot  follow  otherwise 

Than  with  her  spent  and  straining  eyes. 


Mount,  mount  we  on  that  steed  of  air 
That  was,  of  old,  her  sisters'  care, 
And  mark  in  winged  course  wondrous 
Swift  Bayard  race  with  Pegasus ! 


'Twas  in  the  ruddy  eventide 
When  Caverlaye  began  his  ride, 
And  Bayard's  glossy  coat  did  seem 
All  bronzen  in  the  flaming  beam. 


"While  through  St.  Branches'  town  he  swept 
The  sun  still  o'er  the  horizon  kept; 
But  though  he  sped  like  stormy  blast, 
The  flying  light  sped  yet  more  fast. 


Linger,  O  deep'ning  shades  of  night; 
Linger,  ye  beams  of  fading  light ! 
Oh  for  a  second  Joshua 
To  curb  the  flashing  orb  of  day  ! 


St.  Bault  he  left  with  parting  light, 
And  at  Chanceaux  rode  into  night. 
Now  through  the  night  in  rapid  beat 
Resound  the  hurrying,  rattling  feet. 

96 


But  the  loud  heart  of  Caverlaye 
Against  his  breast  beat  fast  as  they. 


On,  on  upon  his  furious  course 

Dashed  the  unwearied,  noble  horse; 

Fields,  haycocks,  rocks,  dim  through  the  night, 

Kushed  past  beside  his  headlong  flight. 

Huts,  clumps  of  trees,  drew  slowly  near, 

Then  darted  past  in  swift  career. 


Now  lights  within  the  darkness  shine; 

He  hears  the  pealing  hour  of  nine. 

And  soon  through  Loches  the  thundering  hoofs 

Re-echo  from  the  red-tiled  roofs. 

The  villagers  in  dumb  surprise, 

Roused  from  their  sleep  with  wond'ring  eyes, 

Look  forth  to  see  who  rides  so  late 

And  rides  with  such  a  furious  gait. 

He  sees  the  castle  shadowy  frown, 

A  mighty  pile,  upon  the  town 

Where,  as  was  oft  by  legend  told, 

Sainte  Luitgarde  lived  in  days  of  old. 

For  him  that  legend  old  was  nought ; 

For  him  the  one  absorbing  thought 

Was  that  two  hours  had  passed  away 

And  still  he  was  not  yet  half-way. 

97 


At  Loches,  upon  its  bridge  he  crossed 
The  Indre,  where  beneath  was  tossed 
The  yellow  river's  crested  mane, 
And  soon  upon  Sennevere's  plain 
Was  speeding  onward  in  the  dark. 
At  Vittray  flashed  a  silver  spark 
Above  the  hills,  low  in  the  east, 
And  soon,  in  mellow  glory  drest, 
Rolled  up  the  moon's  broad  silver  shield, 
Pouring  her  light  o'er  flood  and  field. 


And  on  his  hot  and  dusty  sense 

Rose  all  the  cool  night's  sweet  incense. 

He  felt  the  light  and  rising  fogs, 

He  heard  the  piping  of  the  frogs, — 

Peace  seemed  to  rest  on  all  around ; 

The  only  jar  was  the  fierce  pound 

Of  Bayard's  hoof-beats  as  he  flew, 

With  flanks  all  flecked  with  foam  and  dew, 

Past  Villedomain,  past  Ecuille, 

Past  Jumalloche  he  held  his  way ; 

And  still  with  unrelaxing  pow'rs 

Bayard  raced  with  the  fleeting  hours ! 


His  ears  were  flat,  his  head  stretched  low, 
And  every  vein  beat  with  the  flow 


Of  the  fierce  blood  which  in  him  boiled 
And  nerved  him  as  he  onward  toiled. 
At  Wiherne  Caverlaye  cried  out 
With  hopeful  heart  and  lusty  shout, 
For  there  he  passed  the  midway  place 
'Twixt  Brittomarte  and  Kaerenrais. 
But  scanning  close  the  wheeling  heaven, 
He  felt  it  drawing  towards  eleven. 


The  country  changed,  the  plain  gave  place 

To  scarped  rocks  of  rugged  face ; 

And  though  scant  foothold  gained  his  feet, 

The  valiant  courser  fled  as  fleet 

As  e'er  on  lower,  level  ground, — 

The  miles  were  measured  by  his  bound. 


'Twas  'twixt  Dioris  and  St.  Erste 
That  noble  Bayard  stumbled  first; 


His  rider  saw  it  with  a  thrill 
That  smote  his  heart  with  deadly  chill. 
He  named  him  by  each  praising  name 
That  e'er  his  aching  heart  could  frame  ; 
He  stroked  his  reeking  flank  and  neck, 
And  strove  his  parting  fire  to  check. 


Ride  on,  ride  on,  O  Caverlaye ! 
Still  onward,  Bayard,  hold  thy  way ! 
Thy  strength,  thy  every  sinew  bend 
Unto  the  race ;  think  on  the  end 
That  with  each  leap  is  drawing  near ; 
What  praise,  what  glory,  waits  thee  there 


Ride  on,  ride  on,  O  Caverlaye  ! 
Thou  ridest  toward  thy  dawning  day  ! 
Rising  from  out  thy  sorrow's  night, 
Rising  in  hope  and  radiance  bright, 
Ride  on,  ride  on,  O  Caverlaye  ! 
Love,  joy,  and  blessing  urge  thy  way. 


Beyond  yon  hills  that  gently  swell 
Calls  to  thee  fair-haired  Yvernelle. 
Reach  her  ere  yet  the  solemn  chime 
Announce  the  hopeless  midnight  time  ! 
100 


And  all  thy  future  life  is  bliss, — 
One  long,  unending  happiness. 


Ride  for  thy  happiness  and  life, 
Ride  for  thy  heart,  thy  love,  thy  wife; 
Ride  on  o'er  dew-drenched  meadows  wet ; 
Ride  on,  the  midnight  tarries  yet. 


And  thou,  O  Bayard,  bear  him  well ; 
Carry  him  safe  to  Yvernelle. 
And  knight  and  horse  with  purpose  sole 
Strain  every  nerve  to  reach  the  goal. 


But  now  nor  words  nor  touch  avail : 

Brave  Bayard's  strength  begins  to  fail; 

His  breath  in  gasps  comes  short  and  quick ; 

With  blood  the  bit  is  clotted  thick. 

The  ruddy  spume-flakes  faster  fly, 

And  blood  starts  from  his  straining  eye, 

And  oft  he  staggers  in  his  race, 

Though  struggling  still  to  keep  the  pace. 


And  as  at  such  a  gait  he  swung 
Down  into  Brives,  there  quavering  rung 
101 


One  single  stroke,  and  Caverlaye 
Saw  by  the  moonlight,  bright  as  day, 
The  tower  clock  with  its  finger  stark 
The  half-hour  of  eleven  mark. 


He  knew  the  country,  far  and  near, 
He  knew  the  rapid  running  Cher 
With  swollen  current  swiftly  flowed 
One  mile  beyond,  across  his  road, 
Twelve  feet  across  from  edge  to  edge; 
No  ford  was  there,  no  boat,  no  bridge. 


But  an  he  would  with  safety  cross, 
He  could,  by  precious  minutes'  loss, 
Follow  the  river  from  the  town, 
And  reach  the  shallows  farther  down. 


But  did  he  so,  he  knew  'twere  vain 
To  strive  in  time  his  goal  to  gain ; 
For  Bayard,  reeling  in  his  track, 
To  breast  the  stream,  he  on  his  back, 
Were  vainer  still :    the  swirling  stream 
Would  'whelm  them  like  a  drift-wood  beam. 
The  only  way  there  yet  remained 
Whereby  the  far  bank  might  be  gained 
102 


Was,  trusting  to  brave  Bayard's  strength, 
To  leap  the  stream,  a  fearful  length. 


To  bridge  that  gap  with  widest  bound, 
To  safely  spring  from  ground  to  ground 
Above  the  river's  rushing  course, 
Was,  for  a  fresh,  unwearied  horse, 
A  test  which  called  for  ev'ry  nerve; 
Hoof  must  not  slip,  eye  must  not  swerve. 


And  now  his  steed  was  well-nigh  spent; 

Beneath  his  weight  he  almost  bent. 

The  stream  was  wild,  the  banks  were  steep, 

And  Bayard  might  refuse  the  leap; 

Or,  leaping,  all  with  good  intent, 

He  might,  like  arrow  slightly  sent, 

Fall  short,  and  falling  in  mid-course 

The  stream,  both  struggling  man  and  horse 

Would  carry  to  a  certain  grave, 

With  no  one  near  to  help  or  save. 


But  if  he  could  not  gain  the  bank 
In  time,  what  recked  he  if  he  sank? 
If  Yvernelle  he  could  not  save, 
No  place  so  welcome  as  the  grave. 

103 


But  should  he  leap  in  safety  o'er 
And  reach  dry-shod  the  farther  shore, 
He  knew  on  sainted  ground  he'd  stand ; 
For  Kaerenrais  would  be  at  hand. 


Then,  for  one  last  attempt  aroused, 
The  mighty  steel  which  cumb'rous  housed 
His  lab'ring  steed  he  tore  away 
To  give  his  limbs  a  freer  play; 


Ripped  off  the  chanfrein  from  his  head ; 
And,  while  he  ever  onward  sped, 
With  his  sharp  poignard  cut  away 
Each  girth  and  strap,  each  knot  and  stay, 
That  bound  the  saddle  to  his  back, 
And  flung  it  off  beside  the  track. 
Cast  off  his  sword,  his  helm,  his  targe, 
Unlaced  his  haubert  and  his  gorge, 
Threw  off  each  tasset,  cuissot,  greave, 
Naught  weighty  on  his  limbs  did  leave. 


In  Bayard's  mane  he  wreathes  his  grasp, 
And  with  his  knees  his  flanks  doth  clasp. 
He  rides  sans  harness,  bit,  or  mail, 
Like  galley  stript  to  fight  the  gale. 

104 


Now  through  the  darkness  drawing  near 

An  angry  roaring  meets  his  ear: 

The  dreadful  crisis  is  at  hand ; 

With  voice  and  touch,  prayer  and  command, 

To  his  last  pitch  of  failing  force 

He  rouses  the  courageous  horse. 


The  bank  is  reached,  the  flood  is  here, — 
Here  rolls  the  swift  and  swarthy  Cher. 


Now,  Bayard,  now  thy  mettle  prove ! 
He  rises  the  sheer  bank  above, 
His  forefeet  gathered  'neath  his  breast, 
His  haunches  to  the  soil  firm  pressed, 
Then  with  one  mighty  upward  bound, 
Snorting,  he  leaves  the  safe,  firm  ground. 


He  cleared  the  stream,  but  as  his  stride 
Closed  on  the  farther  shelving  side 
He  slipped,  he  slid,  and  pitching  o'er, 
Fell  on  the  dank  and  treacherous  shore. 


Sir  Caverlaye  springs  to  his  feet, — 
What  sounds  are  those  his  ears  do  greet? 

105 


Faintly  across  the  night's  damp  haze 
The  chimes  of  distant  Kaerenrais 
Are  tolling  from  their  ivied  tower 
The  deep  and  fateful  midnight  hour. 


Down  in  the  solemn,  sombre  crypt 
The  sconces  flared,  the  tapers  dript; 
The  fearful  shadows,  fleeing  light, 
Hide  in  deep  corners  in  their  fright. 
Each  angle  of  the  vaulted  roof 
Is  rounded  by  the  spider's  woof. 


The  altar  with  its  candle-light 
Blinks  feebly  at  the  circling  night, 
And  in  long  corridors  of  gloom, 
Where  sags  the  guttering  candles'  fume, 
There  comes  a  noise  of  scurrying  rats 
And  the  weird  rustling  of  the  bats. 


The  arches  groined  are  arched  with  mould, 
The  air  is  thick  and  damp  and  cold; 
And  creeping  things  with  clammy  backs 
Upon  the  walls  leave  slimy  tracks. 
A  cavernous  and  gruesome  place 
Is  the  deep  crypt  of  Kaerenrais. 

106 


To  that  dim  chapel  underground 
Faintly  there  comes  the  midnight  sound; 
And  while  its  tone  in  air  remains, 
Rise  in  fainter  tones  the  strains 
Of  distant  choirs'  even-song, 
That  echoed  the  dim  aisles  along. 


"Heu!  heu!  mundi  vita! 
Quare  me  delectas  ita? 
Cum  non  possis  mecum  stare, 
Quid  me  cogis  te  amare? 


"Heu!  vita  fugitiva! 
Omni  fera  plus  nosciva! 
Cum  tenere  te  non  queam, 
Cur  seducis  mentein  meam? 


:  Appropinquat  tamen  dies 
In  qua  justis  erit  quies; 
Qua  cessabunt  persequentes, 
Et  regnabunt  patientes. 


"Dies  ilia,  dies  vitse, 
Dies  lucis  inauditae, 
Qua  nox  omnis  destruetur, 
Et  mors  ipsa  morietur! 

107 


Heu!   heu!   mundi  vita! 
Quare  me  delectas  ita? 
Cum  non  possis  mecum  stare, 
Quid  me  cogis  te  amare? 

Amen.' 


Now  through  the  heavy,  low-bent  arch 
In  hushed  and  solemn  funeral  march 
The  chanting  nuns  pass  through  the  door, 
With  burning  censers  swung  before, 
With  many  a  quaintly-carven  pyx 
And  ebon  fashioned  crucifix 
Borne  o'er  their  humbly-bending  heads, 
Their  gray  gowns  girt  with  saintly  beads. 
With  pace  sedate  and  footstep  slow, 
They  form  a  long  and  double  row 
Along  the  dim  crypt's  chilly  floor, 
E'en  from  the  altar  to  the  door. 
When  ended  was  the  chant's  last  sound, 
Each  knee  bent  humbly  to  the  ground, 
And  every  lip  was  fraught  with  prayer 
As  the  young  novice  drew  anear. 


She  came,  her  brow  as  purely  pale 
As  her  own  white  and  flowing  veil; 
Leaning  on  Raguenel  for  aid, 
Who  oft  her  trembling  footsteps  stayed. 

108 


Close  in  her  weak  and  faltering  track 
There  came  two  nuns  robed  all  in  black, 
Bearing  the  veil,  a  sombre  cloud, 
Soon  to  become  her  living  shroud. 


The  opening  ritual  is  o'er, 
The  lady  abbess  stands  before, 
And  at  her  feet  kneels  Yvernelle, 
Striving  her  wayward  thoughts  to  quell. 
The  white  veil  from  her  face  is  drawn, 
Showing  her  visage  pale  and  wan. 


Yet  within  Yvernelle's  sweet  breast 
Rise  thoughts  that  cannot  be  repressed  ; 
Thoughts  that  she  deems  it  foul  disgrace 
To  harbor  at  such  time  and  place. 
But  from  her  grasp  her  mind  is  slipped  : 
She  sees  no  more  the  noisome  crypt ; 
The  solemn  chant  she  does  not  hear 
Rising  around  in  accents  drear. 


In  place  of  pillars  gray  she  sees 
The  green  and  columned  forest-trees; 
She  hears  the  hunting-horn's  blithe  sound, 
She  sees  the  deer  stretched  on  the  ground; 

109 


She  sees  Sir  Raguenel  o'er  him  stand 
With  keen-edged  hunting-spear  in  hand. 


She  hears  adown,the  woodland's  dale 
The  growing  sounds  of  clashing  mail ; 
She  sees  that  warrior  drawing  near, 
She  hears  his  summons  loud  and  clear. 


See !  how  the  rest  breath-bated  stand, 
Awed  at  his  tone  of  stern  command. 
Fools !  were  their  senses  turned  to  stone  ? 
At  once  she'd  known  her  lover's  tone. 


How  vividly  it  all  came  back  ! 
Even  the  hoof-beats  of  his  track 
She  almost  heard, — nearer  they  tread. 
How  fast  he  rides !  how  swift  his  speed ! 
Beneath  the  hoofs  the  hollow  loam 
Rattles  like  rattling  of  a  drum. 

And Ha  !   how  now  ?   no  fancy  mere  ; 

These  are  real  -hoof-beats  she  doth  hear; 
Back  into  life  recalled  once  more, 
In  haste  she  rises  from  the  floor, 
no 


The  frightened  nuns  in  silence  all 

Are  gathering  round  their  abbess  tall ; 

The  ceremony  grave  is  stayed, 

Sir  Raguenel  hath  drawn  his  blade; 

And  like  a  universal  pall 

A  silence  settles  over  all. 


And  through  that  silence  all  can  hear 
The  furious  gallop  drawing  near : 
Now  on  the  road,  now  on  the  bridge, 
Now  speeding  up  the  shingled  ledge. 
Right  through  the  gate  one  fiercely  drove 
And  halted  in  the  court  above ; 
And  scarce  a  second  had  passed  o'er 
Ere  Caverlaye  burst  through  the  door. 


Reeling  and  swaying  in  his  pace, 
His  matted  hair  flung  o'er  his  face, 
Covered  with  spume  and  dust  and  mud, 
His  hocqueton  dark  with  half-dried  blood, 
His  armor  gone  from  heel  to  head, 
Yet  Caverlaye  in  very  deed. 


He  looked  not  to  the  left  nor  right, 
But  sprang,  and  to  his  breast  clasped  tight 
111 


Fair  Yvernelle,  then  pressed  in  bliss 
Upon  her  yielding  lips  a  kiss, 
And  tore  the  veil  from  off  her  head 
And  rent  it  to  a  ribboned  shred. 


Idle  it  were  to  further  dwell 
On  Caverlaye  and  Yvernelle. 
She  took  the  veil,  as  she  did  vow, 
But  'twas  the  marriage  veil,  I  trow. 


And  those  same  bells  whose  solemn  chime 
Upon  that  well-remembered  time 
Tolled  in  Sir  Caverlaye's  quick  ear 
That  night  upon  the  banks  of  Cher, 
Anon  from  their  hoarse,  brazen  throats 
Shook  out  the  joyous  marriage-notes. 
The  peal  that  was  to  sound  her  knell 
Was  turned  to  joyous  wedding-bell. 
Loving  and  loved  in  wedlock  both 
They  plighted  their  true  lovers'  troth ; 
And  Raguenel  in  happiness 
Gave  them  his  blessing  and  his  peace. 


And  when  an  old  man  bent  and  gray 
Oft,  from  their  mimic  martial  play, 
112 


To  him  his  grandchildren  would  call, 
Within  high  Brittomarte's  great  hall, 
And  to  their  never-wearied  ears 
He'd  tell  this  tale  of  by-gone  years, — 
How  that  Sir  Caverlaye's  fair  bride 
Was  won  by  that  wild  midnight  ride. 


And  shall  stout  Bayard  be  forgot? 
Not  while  I  live  and  write,  I  wot. 


Long,  long  and  honored  was  his  day, 

And  through  full  many  a  bloody  fray 

Sir  Caverlaye  he  bravely  bore, 

And  brought  him  safely  home  once  more. 

Till,  gray  at  length,  and  full  of  years, 

Honored  and  praised,  and  mourned  with  tears, 


113 


He  died.     Ah,  me !    I  would  'twere  given 
That  horses,  too,  might  have  their  heaven 
And  if  'twere  so,  I  have  no  fear 
But  you  would  find  brave  Bayard  there. 


And  Guhaldrada?     What  of  her? 
I  know  not, — loath  am  I  to  stir 
The  memories  which  like  fallen  leaves 
Hide  long,— past,  long,— forgotten  graves. 


I  know  not,  but  St.  Cuthbert's  wood 
And  Cuthbert  bridge,  long  as  it  stood, 
And  the  turf  hut  of  saintly  fame, 
Came  all  to  have  an  evil  name. 


The  peasant  shuddered  as  he  passed 
Beneath  the  shade  the  cabin  cast. 
Upon  the  bridge  the  wayfarer 
Would  cross  himself  and  say  a  prayer. 
The  huntsman  sunk  his  blithe  halloo 
Or  e'er  he  came  within  that  view ; 
The  woodman  with  his  fagots'  hoard 
In  awe  sought  out  another  ford ; 
The  burgher  ceased  to  count  his  gold 
And  listened  while  the  tale  was  told; 

114 


And  the  brave  errant-knight  alone 
Would  pause  upon  the  arched  keystone, 
And  while  the  sunbeams  ever  glanced, 
And  while  the  streamlet  ever  danced, 
And  while  the  leaves  among  themselves 
Were  whispering  like  hidden  elves, 
And  while  the  oaks  their  long  arms  flung 
Above  the  place  in  benison, 
Recalled,  half  credulous,  again 
The  legend  of  that  lonely  glen. 


For  it  was  said  were  seen  strange  sights 

About  the  place  on  moonlit  nights; 

The  cabin's  window  oft  would  seem 

Alight  with  some  unnatural  gleam; 

And  from  the  water  dark  and  cool 

Hard  by,  where  slept  a  still  deep  pool, 

And  where  'twas  rumored  had  been  found 

A  woman's  body  newly  drowned, 

A  wraith,  they  said,  at  times  would  rise, 

Dark-browed,  dark-haired,  with  sad,  dark  eyes, 

And  mourning  sit,— or  was  it  vain 

And  idle  talk  of  idler  brain? 


I  know  not;   I  could  never  trace 
The  end  of  Guhaldrada's  days. 

115 


Give  o'er, — the  vision  fades,  my  tale  is  told. 

Farewell !  the  day  is  done,  the  twilight  wears. 
Farewell !  O  day  of  Romance  quaint  and  old ; 

Thy  sun  is  setting  through  the  mist  of  years. 

The  dust  of  ages,  which  from  Time's  swift  feet 
Is  shaken  o'er  thee  in  his  endless  flight, 

Gently  would  I  disturb,  with  reverence  meet, 
And  bring  thy  dimmed  resplendence  into  light. 

The  knight,  the  ladye,  minstrel,  all  are  dead ! 

Their  memories  fade,  their  old-time  splendors  pale. 
My  story's  done.     God  rest  them  that  are  sped ! 

"And  so,  'tis  ended  like  an  old  wife's  tale." 


116 


&ara 


